the Sixth
by madame.alexandra
Summary: 1996. She's a probie; he's married. They cross the line. Back-in-the-day. Jenny Shepard/Leroy Jethro Gibbs. An alternate take on the beginnings of their partnership. Take the rating seriously. Contains moral grey areas, the usual rampant Jibbs angst, and the infamous second ex-wife: Diane.
1. Prologue

_"...and the thunder rolls." -Garth Brooks; 'The Thunder Rolls'. [Playlist]_

* * *

_Prologue_

It was ironic, she thought, to find herself in such an unsavory, cliché situation. She, a successful, self-assured, painfully confident professional woman, standing alone in the middle of the day in the drafty, bare laundry room, holding her husband's wrinkled, unwashed shirt.

She rarely did her husband's laundry; their schedules often worked against each other and he was perfectly capable and willing to do his own—which, she considered, as she stared at the bold smear of lipstick on the collar of this particular shirt, might have been due more to ulterior motive than to a progressive notion of household chore gender equality.

She held the garment a little closer, narrowing her eyes with cynical, hollow interest. The garish blot of lipstick stood out against the stark white of the shirt; she could not decide if it was a pinkish-red, or a purple-tinted-red. She supposed the exact colour was altogether irrelevant when she considered what this troublesome streak of lipstick indicated.

She felt dizzy for a moment, and the dizziness gave way to a vague, resigned irritation. She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes for a split second, opening them only to continue staring intently at this stain on her husband's shirt. Anger flared heatedly, subsided into melancholy, and settled into humiliated heartache in a sickening whirlwind.

She had seen the end coming for a good length of time now, but if it absolutely _had_ to end like this—and that wasn't to say she hadn't entertained the suspicion that something might be going on behind her back—she found it to be a devastating blow to her pride that she was doomed to stumble across it by way of errant lipstick in the laundry room while performing such a domestic, housewife chore.

What frustrated her was that she knew Gibbs wasn't this stupid; he wasn't lazy, and—though he could be hurtful—he was far from malicious, and he never would have meant for his wife to find this. He was more careful; he would have tried to protect her, and that she knew how good of a man he could be infuriated her because this one careless accident of a lipstick-marred shirt hurt more than anything he had ever done.

The reason Diane Gibbs was so intensely paralyzed by this seemingly insignificant smear of lipstick was for no other reason than she was positive that none of the lipstick in her cosmetic repertoire was responsible for it.

* * *

-_Alexandra._


	2. What a Shame for Charlie

_A/N: As some of you know, this story has been in the works for a long time. I originally planned to do it, and then post-airing of Season 9's episode "Devil's Triangle", I got some really good material to go ahead with it. I distinctly remember starting it on post-Christmas Vacation plane ride back to my university from Tennessee, and here I am posting roughly a year later. _

_The title of this work is somewhat enigmatic; it will gradually come to light throughout the story (and I'll provide an explanation towards the end.)_

_Expect this to be 'canon' with a twist._

_As it is set in the mid-1990's, I do my best to weed out any anachronisms. Let me tell you, it's been a blast to write about beepers, walkmans, and VHS's. _

_Setting: March, 1996. Gibbs has just closed the Kyle Boone Serial Killer case. (for the purposes of this story, that case's timeline has been adjusted)._

* * *

_Chapter One: What a Shame for Charlie_

Leroy Jethro Gibbs carried his coat over his arm and the soggy newspaper under his arm as he walked up his driveway. It had been cold this morning, but in late March the weather was temperamental and, because the tentative Spring sun had been out all day, the early evening was warm.

He opened his front door, struck immediately by the smell of a very appealing dinner, something he hadn't been home in time to experience in weeks, maybe even months. He tossed his coat over the staircase banister and reached up to rub the nape of his neck, feeling tense. He pulled the paper from under his arm and held it hesitantly as he walked into the kitchen.

Diane glanced up from a chopping board, looked back at her knife, and then looked up again, caught off guard. Her eyebrows went up and she whipped her wrist over to look at the designer watch she always wore. She parted her lips, her brow furrowing slightly, and froze.

"What happened?" she asked warily, her words sharp. "Is someone hurt?"

"Everything's fine, Diane," Gibbs answered just as warily.

She gave him a skeptical look.

"You're never home this early," she said shortly, turning back to her chore.

Gibbs wandered into the kitchen passively, set the newspaper on the counter, and then peeked into the pan on the stove. He reached in to snatch some of the simmering pasta and snack on it; Diane immediately turned around and smacked his wrist, glaring at him and popping the lid back on the food.

"Smells good," he complimented, biting back a grin when he saw the indignant look on her face. She gave him a look, slowly turning back to the cutting board. She shook her head.

"There might not be enough for you, Leroy," she remarked mildly. "I'm used to eating alone."

He shrugged and came up behind her, looking over her shoulder at the peppers she was chopping up.

"Yeah, but you always leave me somethin'," he said.

She did. No matter how late he stayed at work or how bad their argument had been, if Diane had cooked, he could always find something wrapped up and ready to be heated in the fridge; he never expected her to do it or asked her to, it was just some act of consideration that Diane always performed—something that always reminded him to feel guilty for how badly he knew he sometimes treated her.

He watched her cut the peppers for a moment and then glanced down to look her over. She must have been home from work for a while; she was dressed in shorts and a loose t-shirt, and her feet were wrapped in ace bandages, indicating she'd been at the gym.

Gibbs rubbed the back of his neck again and frowned, unsure for a moment how he should proceed. The past month or so had been brutal, at work and at home, and there had been moments when he was at NCIS, violently fixated on catching that bastard, that he was sure Diane wouldn't be waiting when he got home.

She always was, though, even if it was only to start a hell of an argument.

He reached out and put his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. She tilted her head but didn't say anything; he rubbed, his brow furrowing.

"You're tense," he said.

"You're making me nervous," she muttered, holding herself stiffly. She shifted her weight uncertainly and he scoffed at her, shaking his head.

"What'd I do?" he demanded.

"Well, Leroy, you're home before nine, you spoke to me _before_ you disappeared to the basement, it's been about eight minutes and you're not into your whiskey…" she trailed off and shot him a look, arching a brow. "Either you've decided to murder me," she paused. "Or you're…in a good mood."

He looked at her thoughtfully and then smiled, rubbing her shoulders with more purpose. He shrugged again, didn't answer, and went about massaging the kinks out of her neck and shoulders, fine for the moment with watching her chop raw food.

"I had a bad day at work," Diane muttered after a moment, pushing aside peppers and reaching to start cutting the tails off shrimp. Gibbs looked over her shoulder at what she was doing and then nodded.

"How bad?" he asked considerately.

She shrugged and put the knife down. She rubbed her forehead with her clean hand.

"One of my patients got violent, acted out, set himself back months," she answered. "Another is too stubborn. It's frustrating," she said. "It's just frustrating."

"Did he get violent with you?" Gibbs asked after a second.

She shook her head.

"No, one of my assistants," she said. She laughed a little. "He was trying to prove his shoulder was back to functioning, so he threw a punch at this new guy," she sighed, smirking. "It was a good punch, but it hurt my patient more."

Diane cut the tail off of another piece of shrimp and pushed the finished pile away, laying the knife down again. She shook him off her god-naturedly and transferred the raw food to the stove, simmering it in some thick, white Alfredo sauce.

Gibbs pushed the cutting board into the sink and watched her rinse off her hands.

"How long until that's done?" he asked.

"Hmm, oh, maybe half an hour," she answered.

"What is it?" he asked, sneaking over to look again.

She put a hand on her hip and gave him a look, blocking his view. He glared at her; Diane smirked and hung a dishtowel over the faucet, pushing him back a little.

"You've never cared before," she reminded him. She turned to slip past him and paused to look at the headlines in the paper. Uninterested, she slid it over with the rest of the day's mail. "I smell like the gym. I'm going to change clothes," she said.

Gibbs caught up to her and took her hand, tugging her back towards him.

"Need help getting out of them?" he asked, resting his palm on her shoulder. She gave him a wary look and cocked an eyebrow.

"Is this why you're being nice?" she asked skeptically. "It suddenly occurred to you rocky marriages result in no sex?"

He smirked, but it was almost contrite. He moved his hand to her lower back and pulled her closer, thinking.

"I'll finish working out the kinks in your shoulders," he offered in a low voice. Diane lifted her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head. She smiled a little and slipped her arms around his waist, relenting.

"I don't know what's going on with you, Leroy," she sighed. "But I won't question it. If my shrimp is overcooked, don't you dare bitch about it."

He grinned and bent to kiss her, already gently pushing her into the hall and towards the stairs. In the back of his mind, a voice told him that Diane let him get away with his behavior too easily; she forgave too quickly.

He silenced the voice.

He didn't like feeling guilty about the people his self-destructive darkness hurt. And right now, he was seeing a little more light than he had since Kyle Boone's murders had landed on his desk.

* * *

Diane handed her husband a bowl of shrimp and pasta and then grabbed the remote off of the coffee table, stretching out on the couch and settling her feet, crossed at the ankles, in his lap. She pointed the remote at the television, sharp enough to catch the look he shot her.

"Don't give me that look."

"I'm eating," Gibbs pointed out, glaring at her bare feet.

"So?" Diane changed the settings, setting up the television to watch a movie.

"So get your feet away from my food," he retorted.

"Did you wash your hands?" she asked promptly, abandoning the TV for a moment to look at him pointedly.

Gibbs gave her a patronizing look, waiting for her to explain to him just how that was relevant. She looked at him expectantly, wriggling her foot slightly.

"_Why_?" he asked.

"We just had sex; you're about to eat. Did you wash your hands?" she asked matter-of-factly. His lack of response, and the look on his face, told her the answer was no; of course he hadn't washed his hands. The thought never would have occurred to him.

She turned back to fixing the television.

"I didn't think so," she said. "Quit complaining about my feet; they're not touching your _utensil_, you animal."

Gibbs looked down at his fork and hesitated. He wondered if he should go wash his hands. The better question was, was Diane going to nag him if he didn't? Diane, for all her good qualities, had a bad habit of incessantly nagging about stupid things that only mattered to her.

He looked at her suspiciously.

"Did you wash your hands?"

"Of course I did," she retorted seriously. "You saw where my hands have been," she remarked. She paused the opening credits of whatever movie she had chosen. "You _should_ wash yours."

He rolled his eyes.

"I'll move my feet if you wash your hands," she promised, looking at him expectantly.

Muttering, Gibbs set aside his pasta and disappeared into the kitchen to wash his hands. He ran them under hot water and lazily rubbed soap on them, not so much annoyed as thoughtful. He was making an effort to avoid any sort of argument or uncomfortable evening, and that was an effort he hadn't made in quite a while.

Diane seemed to be pretty on edge about the way he was acting, and it was a sad indictment of their marriage for him to realize she was perfectly justified in being suspicious when he was civil and amicable. He liked Diane, and he was never intentionally cruel to her, but he wasn't good at the kind of relationship she wanted and it had caused friction and fights between them more times than he could count.

He toweled off his hands and trudged back into the living room, sitting back down with his bowl in his lap. Diane shifted, curled her feet under her, and leaned into his side, playing the movie she'd put in.

"What are we watching?" Gibbs asked, stabbing a fork into his pasta. He put his feet up on the coffee table and glanced at Diane as she picked around her pasta, eating the peppers out first. He made sure she couldn't see him and rolled his eyes at her finicky way of eating.

Diane ignored him for a minute. She sucked on her fork for a moment and then pursed her lips innocently.

"_The Burning Bed_," she answered.

Gibbs groaned.

"_Again_?"

"Shush."

"Every _damn_ time…" he complained.

"It's my favorite," she defended, nonchalant.

"I know," he grumbled. He had watched Farrah Fawcett set her sleeping husband on fire enough times to know _good_ and well that this was Diane's favorite movie. He narrowed his eyes at the credits. Diane twirled pasta around her fork and put her head on his shoulder.

"You know I make you watch it so you understand what your fate will be if you ever go too far," she remarked smugly.

He paused and looked down at her, frowning. She snickered, and he pressed a placating kiss to the crown of her head, propping his pasta bowl on his knee briefly. He stared at the film for a moment, thinking. He and Diane had subjected each other to enough psychological abuse in the past months to alarm any outsider, and yet she had stuck around—sometimes, ashamed, he wondered _just_ how far was too far.

* * *

Diane listened to Leroy fumbling around with things in the bathroom as she sat against the headboard, reading glasses perched on her nose and a physical therapy case study propped up on her knees. She was putting a good amount of cautious diligence into keeping the peace that he seemed to have brought home with him tonight.

Somewhere under the surface she was still furious with him for the way these past few months had gone—since right before Christmas, when she'd found out about his first wife, and his daughter, and then since Kyle Boone's case had all but consumed him.

Their honeymoon, if they had ever really had one, had been over for a long time now, and Diane knew that more than one of her family members and friends were asking themselves why she was still fighting for a marriage that had reduced her to angry, disheartened tears so many times.

She was too proud to admit to them that she spent a lot of time denying the unhealthy problems she and Leroy had because she was so much in love with him that it hurt less to turn a blind eye.

She glanced up over the rim of her glasses when he came out of the bathroom. He looked at her a minute, dressed in an old t-shirt and old pajama pants. Then he flicked off the bathroom light and yanked back the covers on his neglected side of the bed.

Diane removed her glasses and raised her eyebrows.

"What?" he muttered, sprawling out on his back.

"Aren't you going down to the basement?"

He turned and looked at her silently.

"You _want_ me to go to the basement?"

"I don't care," she said, slipping her glasses back on. She shrugged, turning a page in her book. "You just haven't touched the boat since you got home. It might think you're cheating on it."

He snorted; Diane smiled a little, focused on her reading. She felt a bit out of sorts. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to put her book away, or how exactly she was supposed to go about her usual solitary bedtime routine. In the early days of their marriage, she remembered a lot of sex being involved before they both just fell asleep from exhaustion.

These days, if he came to bed at all, she was already asleep, curled up far away from him on her own side of the bed.

She licked her lips.

"I saw on the news that Kyle Boone's trial is set to start end of April," she ventured quietly.

He shifted slightly.

"Yeah," he grunted.

"Virginia's asking the death penalty," Diane said. She glanced over at him. He stared at the ceiling, one arm folded behind his head. There was a dark look in his blue eyes. She sighed, turning back to her book. He never wanted to say two words together about that case.

She frowned.

"Jackson called," she said finally.

He cocked his head toward her a little.

"When?" he asked, without much interest.

Diane bit her lip. She braced herself.

"In February, Leroy," she said bluntly.

Gibbs swore silently, closing his eyes. He had worked, nose to the grindstone, night and day, exhausted, frustrated, and numb, through the end of February—closing in on Boone and avoiding Diane like the plague because he desperately wanted to distract himself from the anniversary of their deaths and he knew it would be impossible to do that now that Diane knew about them.

Gibbs wondered when Jackson would stop calling on the anniversary. He should have taken the hint years ago.

Diane swept her glasses off her nose again, closed her book, and shoved them onto the bedside table. She scooted over and leaned across Gibbs to turn off the lamp, resting her arms on him when she relaxed and settled back down.

She rubbed his shoulder with a flattened palm.

"Leroy," she murmured.

"Diane," he growled back, his eyes flashing sharply. "Let it go."

"How can you ask me to let it go?" she demanded seriously.

"I didn't _ask_," he retorted aggressively. "Drop it."

She narrowed her eyes and gripped his shoulder, her nails digging into him. He reached up to brush her arm away, shifting as if he would get out of bed. She tightened her grip; fought him a little.

"Don't," she protested. She didn't feel like he had a right to tell her to drop it, but she backed off anyway. "How long's it been since you slept in a bed, anyway?" she asked.

He looked at her impassively. After a tense moment during which he really did entertain the idea of retreating to the basement for a shot of bourbon, he reached up and cupped her cheek in his palm, pulling her mouth down to his. Diane responded, straddled his hips, and kicked the sheets off both of them.

He slipped his hand down her back, pressing her against him, and she shivered, running her fingers through his short hair.

"Oh, Leroy," she murmured hoarsely, and he remembered, suddenly, that Diane had always been just as effective a distraction as work was.

* * *

He was up later than her the next morning, something that was indicated by the smell of burnt toast. It wasn't that Diane was incapable of toasting a piece of bread, it was that she liked it burned black, usually with a cup of tea and two eggs sunny-side-up. She must have an early appointment; usually she didn't head to work until closer to nine.

Gibbs woke himself up from the most restive sleep he'd had since November, stumbling groggily into the bathroom to shave and brush his teeth. He threw on an undershirt and pants and ventured out to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

Diane had the paper propped up, reading it as she munched on the burned toast he had smelled.

He stopped blankly in front of the coffee maker when he realized it was already brewing.

"I started some," she piped up. "Your hair's sticking up in the back," she added.

Gibbs reached up to brush his hand over the cowlick. He glanced at her, and then reached to get a mug out of the cabinet.

"Nice of you," he muttered, waiting impatiently for the coffee to be ready for the taking.

She snorted.

"If you're going to suddenly start acting like my husband, I guess I can do some wifely things in return," she answered.

He turned to look at her, narrowing his eyes at her profile. He sensed the comment had some underlying hostility, and he bristled defensively, choosing not to respond. Leave it to Diane to play the passive-aggressive game. Last night she had been heartened by his friendly behavior; this morning, she'd be offended by it.

Gibbs rolled his eyes and pulled the coffee pot out, pouring the dark, black liquid into his mug and taking a drink before it even had a chance to cool. He ignored the scalding heat and closed his eyes, letting the first sip of coffee settle into his bloodstream.

He walked over to see what she was reading and looked her up and down, noticing again how unbelievably attractive Diane was. Even with her hair pulled back in a neat, almost austere pony-tail, her face alone was enough to make a good dog break its leash, and that was without taking into account how well she dressed.

Gibbs rested his free hand on her lower back and pulled her towards him, tilting his head. She glanced up at him, taking her eyes off the simmering eggs, and let him press a kiss to her mouth. She smiled a little half-heartedly and turned right back to her breakfast and newspaper.

"As satisfying as last night was," she said guardedly, "it doesn't miraculously fix everything, Leroy."

He frowned, and gave her a wary look. Her took another drink of the hot coffee, rolled his eyes, and pushed the mug away, leaving to finish getting dressed for work. He set his jaw. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his shoes, because they had ended up being removed in the bedroom last night. He put on a polo, grabbed a suit jacket, and—after taking more time than he actually needed—exited he bedroom and went to gather his badge, gun, and wallet from the kitchen counter.

Diane had been up before him, but he could be ready and at work faster than her.

She looked up at him, watching his hands as he fumbled with his things. She tapped her fork against her plate hesitantly and frowned, her forehead creasing. She wrinkled her nose distastefully, sighed reluctantly, and spoke:

"Are we going to talk about it?"

He shot her a brief glare.

"'_It'_?" he quoted sarcastically.

She gestured vaguely with her fork.

"'It', '_us'_, '_this'_," she said, a little annoyed. "The problems we've had the past four months!"

He grit his teeth. He knew he shouldn't provoke her, or play stupid, but—

"Problems?" he scoffed, blowing her off.

"Leroy," she said testily, her voice going up threateningly. She pursed her lips in irritating and raised her eyes. "Then again, _no_, I don't suppose you'd know we have problems considering you came home _maybe_ once a week—"

"Diane, he was a serial killer," Gibbs interrupted curtly. "I had a job to do."

She glared at him, clamping her mouth shut. After a moment, she pointed her fork at him stiffly.

"I understand that," she said coldly. "And I did my very best not to be on your back about it. There were times when you were unappreciative of me, not to mention unbearable to live with. We have _problems_, Leroy," she said tightly. "We need to address them. I don't like the way you treated me," she paused.

He slipped his badge into his wallet and his gun into its holster, giving her a blank, unreadable look. She raised her eyebrows seriously, standing her ground. He reached up and rubbed his forehead, irritated, his eyes dark and unfathomable.

"I've got to go," he said, walking around towards the door. She turned, her hand flying to her hip immediately.

"You can't be angry at me because I found out about them," she asserted sharply, raising her voice.

He stopped, looking back at her. He narrowed his eyes, and she saw the brief, stinging loathing that simmered there for a minute. It was gone quickly, but it lingered in the back of her mind. She bit her lip, bothered by how much it hurt.

"You can't turn your back on _me_ because _you_ kept secrets," she snapped.

He did exactly that; he turned his back on her, and he walked out, slamming the door behind him. She cringed, staring at the stained glass as it rattled a little in its frames. She shouldn't have, but bringing up Shannon and Kelly was the only way to elicit a response from him sometimes.

It was the only way for her to understand him.

* * *

The spat with Diane ruined his morning and put him in an unapproachable, unpleasant mood—a feat that, he had to admit, wasn't that difficult to accomplish. Diane had the frustrating power to leave him seething in annoyance so consuming that he forgot to dwell in the pain of losing Shannon and Kelly.

Gibbs stormed into the bullpen, missing his customary cup of coffee, and ignored the hesitant 'good morning' the eager-to-please Stan Burley greeted him with. Noting his boss' empty coffee-hand, Burley quickly buried his head back in work, smart enough to refrain from irritating an already annoyed Marine.

Gibbs clicked the button thingy that muted the television, putting an end to the droning stream of morning news Burley had on loop in the background. He sat down at his desk and suddenly regretted his decision not to pick up another cup of coffee on the way here.

He glanced up, narrowing his eyes.

"Where's Decker?" he barked, turning and glaring at Burley.

Burley jumped, looking at Decker's empty desk with wide-eyes. He shrugged.

"Dunno, Boss," Burley said. "I don't keep tabs on him."

Gibbs just glared at Burley. The other agent fidgeted; if he had been a Labrador, his ears would have drooped at the disparaging look he was being given. Burley looked back at Decker's empty chair and shrugged again, checking the time.

"He's got five minutes," Burley said, gesturing to the clock on the wall. "It's not seven yet."

"He's late," decided Gibbs in a growl.

"Okay," agreed Burley immediately, changing his tune. He bowed his head and went back to work.

They still had mountains of paperwork to complete and file concerning Kyle Boone. It was necessary to share things with the FBI, with local LEOs, with the courts—write up incident reports, witness statements, et cetera. In a rare moment of sympathy, Gibbs had allowed everyone to leave early the previous night, right when Kyle Boone's arrest had been finalized.

But now, it was back to business.

Gibbs was back to his unsympathetic, brooding, menacing self.

William Decker darted into the bullpen mere minutes later, looking apprehensive and smug at the same time.

"You're late," Gibbs snapped at him.

"What? Naw, Boss, come on! It's six-fifty-eight! I _booked_ it from the metro!"

Gibbs ignored Decker, and in turn, the agent threw his gear heavily down by a filing cabinet and collapsed heavily in his chair. He grumbled to himself, and Gibbs chose to ignore it—even though Decker didn't seem to be trying very hard to hide his frustration.

"Uh, Boss, do I file the local LEOs' reports with our stuff, or give' em back?" Burley asked uncertainly.

"Copy the new evidence we found into their files, copy their files for our new evidence," Gibbs answered mechanically. "Everyone gets a copy of everything; everyone's happy."

Burley went back to work; Decker started rummaging around for his own stuff to get to. There was a distinct atmosphere of boredom; it seemed inevitable that, after the depth and darkness of the Boone case, there would be a period of mind-numbing dullness.

Gibbs was already dreading having no excuse to work conveniently late, Diane-avoiding hours. He stared at the files in front of him, distastefully mulling over the idea of having to try and '_fix_ this' with his wife.

He was still stewing unhappily about the prospect when an agent nudged his shoulder from behind. Gibbs turned around in his chair, coming fact-to-face with Chris Pacci as he leaned over the wall. The agent, younger than Gibbs, but with equal seniority, gestured up to the catwalk with the newspaper in his hand.

"Morrow wants you," he said. "ASAP."

Gibbs glanced at his phone.

"You his messenger boy now, Pacci?" Gibbs teased gruffly.

"We were finishin' up in MTAC; I was on my way down. I'm going home," Pacci said tiredly, his eyes lightening at the prospect of home and sleep. Gibbs nodded and started to stand, turning around briefly.

"What's he want, Chris?" Gibbs asked, raising his voice.

Pacci turned around at the elevator, holding his arms out and shrugging.

"Dunno, Gibbs, maybe to give you a gold star?" he retorted wisely. He pointed at Gibbs with the rolled up newspaper. "He's got a new secretary, man, check out the _legs_ on her."

Burley looked up with interest. Gibbs rolled his eyes and kicked his chair away, leaving the bullpen and jogging up the stairs to the Director's office.

* * *

Director Tom Morrow of NCIS cut the satellite feed that had him on conference with the LA field office's Agent McAlister and turned with a smirk to the agency's newest recruit. He signaled for the lights to come up in MTAC and removed his headset, shaking his head.

"My apologies," he said cordially. "I wouldn't have had you here so early if I'd known I'd be mediating a squabble," he said wryly. "I hate that you have to see something as petty as inter-agency jurisdiction battles on your first day."

From her place in the front row of MTAC's theatre seating, the redhead leaned forward, uncrossing her legs and resting her arms on them lightly. She tilted her head.

"I'm sad to say it was not nearly as petty as law school," she remarked lightly.

Morrow's smirk turned to a grin, and he indicated that she should stand. He led her towards the heavily fortified, soundproofed doors of the technologically advanced threat assessment room and turned to her, meeting her eyes.

"I'll warn you," he began bluntly. "On his good days, Agent Gibbs has a pretty nasty bark, and he's just come off a hell of a case."

She nodded.

"Hence the opening on his team," she remembered calmly. Morrow nodded, and hesitated a moment. She twisted her lips up in a sarcastic smile. "Let me guess: this nasty bark of his is worse than his bite?"

Morrow laughed, shaking his head.

"The bite's much worse, Agent Shepard," he corrected her seriously. "He's a difficult man to work with."

Jennifer Shepard looked at her Director critically for a moment.

"Sir, I believe you knew my father," she stated respectfully, more of an assertion than a question.

"I did," Morro responded with a nod.

She smirked.

"Then you know I can hold my own when it comes to difficult men."

* * *

Gibbs strolled into the Director's outer office, looking immediately to the secretary's chair on Pacci's advice. It was empty; Gibbs furrowed his brow. He doubted Morrow had a new secretary. Charlene had been around since Mike Franks' early days; there was no way she'd been replaced.

Gibbs promptly forgot about the empty assistant's chair and reached out to open Morrow's office door—at exactly the same time it swung back, seemingly of its own accord.

He narrowed his eyes sharply and lowered his hand, raising his eyes from door-handle level. The green eyes he met seemed just as surprised to find someone in her way as he was to find her in his; she tilted her head, studied him neutrally, and then walked past him.

She perched on the edge of Charlene's desk and crossed her legs at the ankle, a slight look of impatience evident around her mouth. Gibbs shifted slightly, looking over her briefly. She shot him a sharp look and he stopped, turning abruptly and entering Morrow's office.

Must be the _legs_ Pacci was talking about.

"Gibbs," Morrow greeted, looking up as the senior agent entered his office. He gave him a look. "Your team finally got home at a decent hour last night," he remarked.

Gibbs shrugged.

"Ah, figured they earned it," he allowed, just a bit complimentary. He smiled a little, nodding at the Director. "Good Mornin' sir," he added.

"Well, it's mornin'," Morrow said in return, a frown crossing his face. He shifted his weight and picked up a file, balancing it on a flattened palm and showing it to Gibbs.

Gibbs narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth.

He nodded at the file.

"What's that?" he asked warily.

"Employee file," Morrow answered brusquely. "Agent Rawls' replacement."

Gibbs resisted the urge to smack the file out of the director's hand and stomp on it violently. He glared at the file and then looked at Morrow in annoyance, making a nice effort to sound civil when he spoke again.

"I don't need a replacement for Rawls," he said seriously. "Burley and Decker can handle it."

Rawls had been an agent from Norfolk, where some of Boone's murders had taken place, working with Gibbs' team on a trial period with the intent of landing a permanent position. In the wake of the grueling task of bringing Boone to justice, the guy had resigned from NCIS altogether, choosing pursue work that he saw as less disheartening.

Morrow shrugged.

"I knew you wouldn't like it, Jethro," he said amiably. He waited patiently for Gibbs to take the file; Gibbs grabbed it, but didn't open it. He just let it hang by his side, unconcerned, and glared a little more.

Morrow held his hands up as if it couldn't be helped.

"We've got a shortage of good agents, Gibbs. The European offices might need to pull Decker or Burley from you. I've got to keep training 'em and training 'em good, and I trust you to do that," he said frankly. He pointed at the file. "She's good, Gibbs."

Gibbs blinked, giving Morrow a sardonic look.

"_She_?" he repeated skeptically.

Morrow laughed.

"You know, sometimes it's obvious that Franks trained you," he said. Gibbs reached up and rubbed his jaw stiffly. He paced towards the door and turned back around, setting his jaw tightly.

Morrow held up his hand.

"I know you don't want a probie thrown at you right after Boone," he placated. "Give it a chance. She blew 'em away at FLET-C, Gibbs. Got a helluva education, too, and she's tough as nails," Morrow smiled wryly. "I knew her father."

"Ah, Director," Gibbs protested, frustrated. "I don't give a damn if you knew her father," he growled. He thrust his arm, file in hand, towards the door. Morrow raised his eyebrows and Gibbs reined it in a little, looking sheepish.

"Give her a chance."

"That an order?"

"Yes, Gibbs, it is," Morrow said firmly. "She's an asset."

Gibbs wrenched open her file, skimming right over the blurry ID photo and rapidly taking in her background information. Fancy colleges, fancy degrees, high-and-mighty prep school…he groaned and snapped the file back shut.

"She's not an asset, she's _bored_!" he snapped. He turned towards the door, found that he hadn't shut it, and slung it easily open a little more, scowling. "I don't have time to teach some Daddy's girl, silver spoon fed, Charlie's Angel _wannabe _crime-fighting _princess_ how to be an agent—I've got a job to do!"

Morrow walked up to Gibbs slowly, wincing slightly. He reached for the door Gibbs didn't have a vice-like grip on and opened it. Gibbs looked around tensely.

"Where is this _asset_, anyway?" he asked sarcastically.

Morrow cleared his throat and inclined his head. Gibbs turned aggressively and found himself meeting, once again, a pair of unexpected green eyes. She stared right back with a piercing, collected look that said she had heard exactly what he'd said—how could she not?—and then she smiled coolly and extended her hand.

"That would be me," she said, in a confident alto voice. "Jennifer Shepard," she introduced, narrowing her eyes. "Though I'll answer to _your highness_," she mocked boldly, clearly not taking kindly to being called belittled as a delicate princess.

Gibbs clenched his jaw and accepted her handshake gruffly, nodding his head in a curt, dismissive manner. She had a strong handshake, and an icy stare, and he could have kicked himself for not realizing the moment he met her unfamiliar emerald eyes she wasn't anybody's _secretary_.

* * *

She had taken her hand back and gracefully left the outer office before Gibbs realized it. He shot a look at Morrow, rubbed his forehead roughly, and went off after her, gritting his teeth again. He tucked her file under his arm and caught up to her on the stairs descending the catwalk. At the foot of them, she stopped and looked at him expectantly.

He beckoned her towards the bullpen. Burley had disappeared, but Decker was thumbing through the filing cabinet, a stack of envelopes in the crook of his arm. He looked up when Gibbs entered and did a double take, interested.

Gibbs pointed at the desk directly across from his own.

"That's you," he grunted towards Shepard. He nodded his head at Decker as he walked back behind his own desk and flung the woman's file down in a drawer. "This is Decker," he told her abruptly.

Decker looked at Gibbs cautiously. Gibbs pointed.

"That's Shepard. She's new," he muttered.

"Whose?" Decker asked.

"Ours," retorted Gibbs bluntly. "Mine," he muttered, shooting a glare at her.

Decker pushed the filing cabinet shut and shrugged, wandering over to Shepard's desk slowly and introducing himself in a more formal way. Gibbs stood silently for a moment, and then sat down, leaning back. He waited until it seemed Decker had stopped trying to be suave and charming and then broke it up.

"Where's Burley?" he demanded.

Decker whipped around, snapping to attention.

"He's getting Miller's signature on the final forensic reports," Decker answered promptly, moseying back over to his desk. "Some of them were illegible after they were copied," he explained.

Gibbs nodded.

"Go tell Ducky he's cleared to release the last body. Call JAG and tell 'em we've got files," he ordered.

Decker nodded and stood up, flashing a smile at his new teammate before he disappeared towards the elevator to do Gibbs' bidding. Gibbs heard the elevator's annoying, customary _ping_! And turned his attention back to Shepard.

She had casually pulled open the thin drawer under her desk and was examining the odds and ends that had been left there; scraps of paper, broken pencils, gum wrappers, etc. Her head was bowed slightly, but he was smart enough to realize she was hyperaware of his scrutiny.

Her mouth was set in a taut, clearly pissed off line. She had pulled all of her long hair—red hair—to one side, over one shoulder, while she looked in the drawer, but one errant, moderately curled tendril was falling against her neck, isolated from the rest. Gibbs blinked, and in the brief blink, he remembered the sight of her long, crossed-at-the-ankle legs stretched out as she perched on Charlene's desk.

He stood up, snapping himself out of wherever he was about to go. He abruptly, perhaps subconsciously, remembered that he was absorbed in his irritation at Diane, and he stalked across the bullpen to stand in front of her desk.

Quite calmly, she looked up at him, sliding the drawer closed. She leaned back in her chair, bearing his critical look in silence. Gibbs tilted his head at her.

"You gonna pout?" he asked Jennifer Shepard abruptly, noting the resentment in that hard line of her mouth, and even in those composed, guarded green eyes.

"No," she answered simply.

He arched an eyebrow, impressed. He nodded once curtly, and straightened, heading back to his desk.

"Agent Gibbs," she said crisply.

He turned around.

She leaned forward, interlocking her fingers and holding them under her chin, her elbows resting on the empty desk. Her eyes narrowed and held his glare like immoveable steel.

"I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth," she said sharply. "I was born on the wrong side of the blanket," a sarcastic smirk appeared on her lips. "My teenage father joined the army to try to support my teenage mother, and seven years later, when she hit the road and left him with full custody, he busted _his_ ass on deployments and made damn sure he was promoted to a position that could support me. I got a job when I was sixteen to help pay for the private school I wanted to attend, and then I worked _my_ ass off at two jobs to pay my own college tuition. My father never let me forget the value of a dime, and when I threw away a full scholarship at law school to join NCIS, we didn't speak for half a year," she stopped and set her jaw, tilting her head at him.

Her nose wrinkled heatedly.

"I have earned everything I have on my own damn merit and this job is no exception. I am not _daddy's girl_ and I am certainly not a _Charlie's Angel wannabe_," she quoted acidly. "I proved myself at FLET-C; I see no need to prove myself to the chauvinistic likes of _you_."

Gibbs glared at her silently for a good, long minute, letting her aggressive, empowered little speech sink in. He digested some of what she'd said, considering the assumptions he made that may have been wrong. No; she wasn't a secretary, and she damn well wasn't a delicate flower.

He smirked.

"You just did," he said bluntly, sitting back at his desk.

"Did—what?" she asked, unlocking her fingers. She looked suspicious, caught off guard. She parted her lips in question and blinked, her long eyelashes resting for a nanosecond against her skin.

"Proved yourself," he answered simply, opening one of his drawers and rummaging for an NCIs-specific handbook. He yanked an old, coffee-stained copy from the very bottom and tossed it to her; she was shocked, but she caught it skillfully. He nodded once in approval.

"Study it."

"I already have," she fired back.

He lifted a brow.

She lifted the same one.

"You don't go to the first day of class without looking over the material," she said smartly, pushing the handbook to the edge of her desk. He nodded, smirking just a little, and leaned back, waiting for Decker and Burley to return.

She folded her arms, a little more relaxed, and tilted her head, pursing her lips thoughtfully.

"Charlie's Angels," she growled, bristling. "Last time I checked, I wasn't a blonde bombshell or a brunette beauty," she scoffed. She arched an eyebrow and lowered her chin. She clicked her tongue. "Charlie didn't like redheads."

Gibbs looked at her, his expression unreadable, and after a tense moment, he smirked a little, and it didn't occur to him to think it dangerous that he wasn't pissed at Diane anymore—in fact, he wasn't thinking about Diane at all.

He was thinking, _what a shame it was for Charlie._

* * *

_-I'll give a small shout-out to my Beta, Miss Mila, at this point, but towards the end I'm going to give her the rousing thanks she deserves._

_References: _NCIS Season 6 Episode _"Bounce"_ (The Burning Bed; "...second wife's favorite movie." -Gibbs); NCIS Season 3 Episode _"Mind Games"_ (Kyle Boone), _Charlie's Angels_.

_-Alexandra  
__Story #100_


	3. the Bad Kiss

_A/N: I have a statistics exam today (providing I don't go through with my plan to fling myself into the sun instead). On the Mr. Brightside: afterwards, I'm done with math forever._

_side note: Devil's Trifecta was probably the most hilarious episode of NCIS. ever. _

_Jenny's Timeline: (for the purposes of this story) Investigation into Jasper Shepard begins circa June 1994; Jenny begins final year at law school August 1994. She drops out at the end of her final fall semester; causes a huge fall-out between her and her father. She goest to FLET-C (in Georgia) for training. She finds out about the investigation circa October 1994; has another falling out with her father regarding legal representation. For a while, his behavior confuses her and she thinks he is guilty. Jasper Shepard "commits suicide" in April 1995. Jenny leaves FLET-C to deal. Returns to FLET-C. Joins NCIS. Is 25 as of September 1995.  
_

* * *

_Chapter Two: the Bad Kiss_

Gibbs glared impatiently at the smugly grinning agent who stood in front of him. He didn't like guessing games as much as Burley seemed to think he liked to play them, and he dealt with the imperative _'guess what happened, boss'_ by remaining silent until Burley realized it was in his best interests to just get to the point.

Burley snickered, but he relented.

"Okay, I'll tell you," he patronized. "She tossed her cookies."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes at Burley.

"What?" he demanded sharply.

"She threw up, Boss; Shepard _vomited_ in autopsy!" Burley elaborated gleefully, a lofty look in his eyes. He grinned wolfishly, obviously highly amused by such an unpleasant event.

Gibbs scowled, annoyed at the very thought. If Shepard couldn't handle a dead body—

"She contaminate anything?" he asked shortly.

Burley shook his head.

"Deck yanked her out of the way," he informed Gibbs. "We though she was gonna pass out, Gibbs, even Ducky was freaked out."

Gibbs stood, starting to answer, when the ringing of his phone distracted him. He picked it up and answered in his customary way, still looking at Burley narrowly. He felt like Burley wasn't telling him the whole story, though he couldn't really think of anything else there would be to tell. So Shepard had a weak stomach; so did Diane.

He scowled.

_Women._

After listening to what the metro cop on the line was saying, Gibbs nodded abruptly and gave a clipped answer, hanging up the phone. He opened his drawer and pulled out his gun and credentials.

"Grab your gear," he ordered.

Burley nodded breezily.

"Want me to get Shepard?" he asked impishly, smirking.

"No," Gibbs snapped, shooting him a glare. "Get Decker, and get the truck," he ordered.

Gibbs marched across the bullpen and picked up Shepard's backpack, squinting at it for a moment before slinging it on his arm to take to her.

"I'll deal with her," he muttered, heading for the elevator.

Burley cupped his hands around his mouth.

"She and Ducky are in the lab, Boss," he offered helpfully. "Gerald's cleaning up in autopsy."

Gibbs stepped onto the elevator and slammed his hand resentfully on the necessary button.

* * *

He heard low voices coming from the forensics lab; the door was halfway shut and he barged right in, glancing around the room. The three occupants looked over at him; Miller from her chair, Shepard from the chair next to her, and Ducky from where he was leaning over a metal evidence table.

Ducky smiled good-naturedly.

"Ah, Jethro, I was wondering when you'd show up," he remarked in his friendly Scottish brogue.

Gibbs ignored him, and looked at Shepard. She looked back at him over the rim of a…beaker? Gibbs tilted his head, staring at the odd choice of cup. Miller would have sterilized the thing for someone to drink out of but still—it was an odd choice of cup for someone who was apparently squeamish.

Gibbs held up Shepard's bag, deciding not to say anything about the beaker-mug.

"You think you can handle a crime scene?" he asked gruffly, nodding his head briefly at whatever she was drinking. "_Without_ the tea to settle your stomach?" he added a little satirically.

Miller rolled her eyes stiffly and swiveled around in her chair to some analysis sheets, turning her back on Gibbs. They did not get along well; Miller was a pragmatic rule follower who didn't like his attitude, and Gibbs just didn't give a damn _what_ she thought.

Shepard set aside her beaker and nodded, shrugging without much concern.

Gibbs smirked.

"Can't work a crime scene with a weak stomach," he drawled.

She stood up, slipping her hands into her back pockets, and stepped forward a little, looking down at her bag. She looked back up at him bluntly and licked her lips, a stubborn look in her green eyes.

"I don't have a weak stomach," she challenged simply.

Gibbs raised his brow. He made a point of looking for a long minute at the unfinished tea and then handed her the gear he'd brought, looking down at the impressive high heels she wore—those heels that made her capable of looking the men she worked with in the eye.

"Can't work a crime scene in heels, either," he said bluntly. He looked up. "Miller, take Shepard and grab her a pair of boots."

Miller turned and gave him a nasty look, standing slowly. She beckoned to Shepard, and began to lead her out.

"Sure, Agent Gibbs, I wouldn't mind at all," Miller said icily. "Thank you for asking so nicely."

Gibbs rolled his eyes, turning to watch Shepard walk out.

The redhead stopped next to him and reached for her bag, deftly pulling it off of his arm and slinging it onto her shoulder. Her fingers brushed roughly against his shoulder and she gave him an unreadable look; he was getting used to that irksome stare. She had been turning it on him a lot in the first week-and-a half she'd been working for him.

"Jenny," Miller said impatiently.

Shepard broke her gaze and followed the scientist out of the lab and down the hall, leaving Gibbs alone with Ducky. The ME frowned as he picked up Shepard's abandoned tea and made his way casually over to his friend.

"The earl grey was my idea, of course," he said lightly. He lowered his voice slightly. "Jethro, I don't think she's squeamish."

"Ah, c'mon Duck," Gibbs dismissed. He didn't want to hear Ducky defend Shepard's inability to handle the gore like he was her fond old grandfather.

Ducky shook his head in earnest.

"I am serious, Gibbs," he said firmly. "Jennifer was observing the autopsy perfectly unfazed until her colleagues started in on her."

Gibbs paused, looking at Ducky more closely.

"What're you sayin', Duck?" he asked seriously.

"I am saying," Ducky answered helpfully, "that if _I_ had been told to put on gloves and then was asked to hold the brain of a victim while someone informed _me_ that I should imagine I was looking at the body of my father, or some other loved one, in order to see if I could '_leave my girly emotions out of the job_," Ducky paused pointedly. "I myself might have vomited."

Gibbs studied Ducky, his mouth tensing, as he processed what the Scotsman was telling him.

* * *

Ten minutes passed and Gibbs had Shepard with him on the way to the Anacostia crime scene. She had not said so much as a word to him since she had denied that she had a weak stomach. He looked over at her composed face again, and his eyes travelled swiftly down to her legs, and then to the incongruous work boots he'd forced her to exchange her heels for.

He smirked.

"What did you do with the stilettos?" he asked, drawing out the end of the fancy word.

She looked over at him and smiled slightly.

"They weren't stilettos," she replied smoothly. "They were pumps."

Gibbs glanced at her again.

"What's the difference?" he asked callously.

"Stilettos have a slimmer, more threatening heel," she answered coolly. The corner of her lip turned up slightly. "Stilettos are evening wear. Pumps are professional."

Gibbs rolled his eyes.

"Why's it matter?"

"Well, I wouldn't want you to sound ignorant, Agent Gibbs," she said seriously.

He did a double take, taking a moment to realize that there was the faintest hint of a tease in her voice. She tilted her head and looked out the front windshield. Shepard crossed her arms and leaned back, the strap of her seatbelt wrinkling her sleeve.

"To answer your question, I left my _pumps_ with Margaret."

He noticed her stress on the word 'pumps' and gave her points for holding her own. Still, he furrowed his brow a little and snorted.

"Margaret?" he repeated skeptically.

Shepard looked over at him and raised one eyebrow incredulously.

"Margaret _Miller_," she said. "The forensic scientist. You don't know her name?" Shepard asked indignantly. "Is that just her, or do you neglect to learn _any_ female colleagues' names?"

He shrugged his shoulders provocatively, making a sharp left-hand turn that made her uncross her arms and grip the middle console. He glanced down and smirked, tilting his head back and forth without concern.

"I doubt Miller knows my name, _Jenny_," he said sarcastically, putting significant emphasis on her name. He had probably heard Miller's first name before; it just hadn't stuck. It wasn't because he was sexist that he didn't know it was 'Margaret'; he just didn't like Miller.

Shepard laughed lightly.

"Oh, she does," the redhead corrected him. She let out a breath tauntingly. "She has a lot to say about _you_."

Gibbs grunted, narrowing his eyes darkly.

"I bet she does," he muttered under his breath.

Shepard pursed her lips.

"Lucky for you, I like to pass my own judgments," she said.

Gibbs snorted.

Casually, the woman next to him examined her nails. She tossed her head a little, and leaned it back against the headrest, staring ahead of her. She parted her lips hesitantly and then swallowed, seeming to resolve herself.

"I didn't vomit because I'm a woman," she said vaguely, her tone brooking no argument.

He nodded.

"I know," he retorted.

He narrowed his eyes slightly and he felt her turn to look at him, her brows going up in genuine surprise. He didn't look back at her. He set his jaw and made another turn, decelerating as they closed in on the crime scene.

"Were you going to tell me?" he asked abruptly.

"Tell you what?" she asked warily, sitting up straight and unbuckling her seatbelt.

He turned off the car and turned to her with a blunt look; she knew damn well what he was talking about.

"The hazing," he said gruffly.

She blinked, frowning a little. She let her seatbelt slide through her hands smoothly and opened her car door, turning around to bend over a little and shoot him a look as she stood up.

"No," she said decisively.

"You don't have to take it from those two," Gibbs said, already annoyed with Burley and Decker for, according to Ducky, having harassed Shepard so mercilessly in the past few weeks—right under Gibbs' nose.

"Only from _you_?" she retorted, smirking. She bit her lip. "I'm not a tattletale, Gibbs," Shepard said shortly. "I don't think you'd take any more of a liking to me if I was," she added sweetly.

With a look that let him know that she was highly perceptive when it came to his resentment towards having her on his team, she grabbed her backpack from the floorboards and slammed the car door.

* * *

Burley and Decker, evidently having taken their own sweet time getting on the ball since Gibbs had sent them ahead, were lazily getting gear out of the truck, chatting casually with each other while they did so.

Missing his morning coffee again—and silently cursing that unfortunate fact—Gibbs stormed up behind them and hit them both simultaneously in the back of the skull, shoving between them to grab a box of crime scene gear.

Their twin yelps were, just for a moment, music to his ears.

"What the hell was that for, Boss?" groused Decker, rubbing the back of his head.

"Hazing," Gibbs growled seriously, giving them each a brief glare. "Get a move on."

"The guy's _dead_, Gibbs, he ain't going anywhere," Burley said profoundly, frowning in annoyance. "So Shepard can't handle a little initiation?" he scoffed. Decker snorted and shook his head. "I told you she'd squeal," Burley continued.

Decker reached into his pocket and started to hand over a twenty to Burley. Gibbs grabbed it and crushed it in his fist, shoving it into his own back pocket. He fixed a particularly deadly glare on the both of them.

"Aw, come on, Boss, we were just feelin' her out," Decker said, looking a little more contrite.

"_You_ two don't test her," Gibbs said firmly. "I do," he paused, a muscle in his temple jumping angrily. "Dr. Mallard told me," he added, preserving Shepard's status as a non-tattletale.

"Damn," swore Burley.

Decker pulled a bag over his shoulder and glanced over at Shepard. He raised his chin and nodded at her; Gibbs turned, following his gesture. Shepard had ducked under the tape and was talking to one of the metro cops; she had a hand on her hip, and her ID in the other.

"What's she doing?" Decker muttered.

Gibbs smirked and grabbed Burley's bag.

"Your jobs," he said pointedly, stalking off to monitor Shepard. Capable and assertive or not, this was her first authentic crime scene and he couldn't let her interview at the scene on her own.

He heard Burley slam the truck doors closed, and both he and Decker hurried after Gibbs, looking at least a little appropriately reprimanded.

* * *

Swallowing his pride, William Decker dragged his feet across the bullpen to Shepard's desk, his backpack over his shoulder. He looked at her for a minute, watching her gather up some of her things. She slipped on a light jacket and glanced at him expectantly, smirking a little.

"You want me to walk you to your car, Agent Decker?" she asked slyly.

He rolled his eyes at her good-naturedly.

"You're such a smart-ass, Shepard," he told her.

She shrugged.

"You and your sidekick wanted me to hold my own," she reminded him shortly, referencing the irritating hazing they'd inflicted on her in the past week.

Decker frowned, clearing his throat.

"Yeah, about that," he muttered. "Sorry. We were a little rough, huh?" He asked sheepishly. He thought about the way they'd berated her in autopsy. They hadn't expected to actually make her sick—but looking back it was inappropriate, no matter what their intentions.

"Not at all," she answered smoothly. "I appreciated the rubber snake in my desk, it was almost like being in high school again." Shepard smirked and crossed her arms, arching an eyebrow at Decker. "Gibbs making you apologize?" she asked bluntly.

Decker gave a surprised bark of laughter.

"Hell, _Gibbs_, make me—you haven't heard-?" he paused, shaking his head. "Never mind. Nah, Gibbs didn't make me. Otherwise, he'd have made Stan make-up with you, too. Did he?"

Jenny snorted.

Decker grinned.

"I didn't think so," he said smugly. "Look, I mean it, Shepard," he said, getting serious. "We shouldn't have busted your balls like that." Decker furrowed his brow, looking confused after he said it. "Er, I mean—"

Shepard laughed.

"I understand the idiom, Agent Decker," she said mildly. "Don't get _your_ panties in a twist," she retorted wryly, pushing her chair in. He grinned, and reached up to rub the back of his head.

"Anyway," he said gruffly, clearing his throat again. "I wanted to, uh, say…I mean, besides apologizing," he shrugged. "That thing you caught at the crime scene, that was pretty damn good," he complimented, attempting to sound nonchalant.

Shepard furrowed her brow, pursing her lips in confusion.

"What?" she asked. She wrinkled her nose slightly. "You mean that something was taken from his pocket?"

"Yeah, that," Decker agreed. "I mean, Burley missed it, I woulda missed it," he said. "How'd you figure something was taken? I mean, it could have just been turned out a little."

She leaned on the edge of her desk and tilted her head back, looking a little reluctant for a moment. She looked at him and sighed.

"I double majored in English Lit and Poly-Sci," she answered.

Decker stared at her.

"Uh, so that means…what?" he asked skeptically, hardly seeing how social science majors could give her good investigative skills.

She looked at him with her tongue in her cheek and smirked.

"Nothing in English Lit is as it seems," she said mystically. Shepard laughed. "It's all metaphors, symbols, distractions," she explained. "I guess I have a thing for seeing what's hidden between the lines," she decided.

She noticed Decker looking at her like she was crazy and she rolled her eyes good-naturedly, shrugging.

"You asked," she informed him, straightening up and lifting her purse off of her desk. She looked across the bullpen at Gibbs' empty desk, and then glanced around the office, looking for any sign of the recalcitrant team leader. She looked at Decker. "Are we free?"

Decker glanced at Gibbs' desk, too.

"Looks like it," he said flippantly. "Funny, Gibbs has been going home when our shift's over lately," Decker mused.

"He doesn't usually?" Jenny asked, starting toward the elevator with Decker.

Decker shook his head.

"Burley and I used to think he lived here," he joked, half-serious. "Man, when we were on the Boone case? He hardly let _anyone_ go home."

"But you caught Boone," Shepard pointed out neutrally.

"You know the Boone case?" Decker asked, gesturing that she should get on the elevator first.

Shepard nodded at him in thanks and answered in the affirmative, turning around and pressing the button for the parking garage.

"Every woman in the tri-state area knows the Boone case, Agent Decker," she said ominously.

Decker nodded. It made sense. Like any other early twenties-to-early thirties aged female, she must have entertained the idea that she could be the next victim of the serial killer who had plagued the area for so long.

"Call me 'Deck'," he said amicably. "Everyone does," he added.

She smiled, and nodded curtly.

"And call Burley 'Steve'," Decker added wickedly. "Gibbs does."

"I thought his name was Stan," Shepard said slowly.

"It is," Decker said slyly. "Gibbs _thinks_ it's Steve. Well, we don't know if he thinks that or if he's just screwin' with Burley, but it's funny either way."

Shepard laughed. She fell silent for a moment and then turned a little, looking at Decker thoughtfully.

"Why doesn't he go home, usually?" she asked.

"Gibbs?" Decker asked. He snorted, smirking. "Not sure, but I think he hates his wife."

* * *

"How did the crime scene go?" Director Morrow asked.

Gibbs nodded, leaning back in his chair. He turned his palms up neutrally, looking at the director as they sat at the conference table.

"No problems," he said vaguely.

"Shepard?"

"She did fine," Gibbs answered.

"I heard a rumor your boys were giving her trouble," Morrow said sharply.

Gibbs expression darkened.

"Not on my orders, sir," he said seriously. "This isn't the Corp," he added, scowling.

Morrow nodded.

"Miller mentioned that they were harassing her a little," he said thoughtfully. "It's normal to rag on the Probies a little, but she's a woman. You and I both know there's a fine line between giving her a hard time and a sexual harassment lawsuit."

"It isn't going to happen again," Gibbs assured Morrow.

Morrow nodded.

"I believe it," he said, thinking of Gibbs' discipline methods. He pointed at the retired Marine good-naturedly. "You can't hit this one in the back of the head, Gibbs," he reminded him.

Gibbs smirked.

"Thought the point of hiring more women was workplace _equality_," he drawled sarcastically.

Director Morrow just shook his head and leaned back, knowing full well that Agent Gibbs was too old-fashioned to ever lay a hand on a woman. There hadn't been a word of complaint from Gibbs concerning Shepard since Morrow had assigned her to him about a week ago, and Morrow couldn't help but be curious about how it was going. He had an inkling that it was going at least well—Gibbs would have raised _hell_ if Shepard had done something to make him think she was useless, just like he'd thrown a fit about Rawls' incompetence.

"What do you think of her?" Morrow asked finally, raising his eyebrows.

Gibbs rolled his eyes. He gave the director a look.

"She threw up, sir," he remarked skeptically.

He understood that Burley and Decker had been messing with her head, but it still made him laugh a little to think that Shepard had just been induced to throw up over some hypothetical situation.

Morrow smiled.

"Jethro, the first time I was in a crossfire in Vietnam, I wet myself," he said, frankly unabashed. "Physical reactions do not necessarily determine mental strength."

Gibbs nodded slowly, remaining silent. After a moment, he stood up, slipping his hands into his pockets. Morrow glanced at his watch, raised his eyebrows, and stood as well, walking over and opening the office door for Gibbs. Charlene looked up and smiled brightly at them both, just in the process of packing everything into a huge floral purse.

"Everyone done for the night?" she asked sweetly.

Morrow and Gibbs nodded.

"Keep me updated on her progress," Morrow said.

Gibbs nodded again, and turned, pausing to let Charlene walk out before him. He turned around in the doorway and looked at the director for a moment, mulling over the judgments he'd been making on Shepard. He tilted his head as if conceding a point.

"She's got it in her," he said slowly. "She's good," he confessed. He narrowed his eyes and shrugged, deciding on the spot that he wanted to keep Shepard on his team. "Problem is, she _thinks_ she's better than she is."

Morrow laughed.

"Sounds about right," he drawled. He gave Gibbs a pointed a look. "If that's the case, Gibbs, then _make_ her as good as she thinks she is."

Gibbs smirked, and slapped his hand on the doorframe as a silent goodnight, heading for the elevator—once again, at a decent hour that would guarantee him a placated Diane.

* * *

Gibbs paused in his work on the boat to run the back of his hand across his brow; it had been unseasonably warm for March this week, and the more he worked, the hotter it got in the basement. He thrust down the sander for a moment and turned to the workbench, sorting through his hand tools for a chisel.

Diane hadn't been home when he arrived, but he'd heard her come in about twenty minutes ago. He couldn't explain why, but he hadn't gone up to greet her. He didn't feel like it. He dreaded her bringing up trying marital counseling or something annoying like that, which she tended to do every time he initiated interaction.

He'd figured out that if he left it to her to start a conversation, she was less likely to think he was in a good mood, and she'd refrain from talking about their problems. On some level, he knew that was a horribly underhanded way to treat her, but he ignored the conscience that told him that.

He wanted to build the boat, and he wanted to be alone.

"Leroy, are you down there?" she called down the stairs, just as he was holding the chisel up to the boat.

He scowled.

"Yeah," he answered grudgingly, waiting a moment.

She didn't answer. He heard footsteps fade away, then footsteps get louder, and she walked a few steps down the basement stairs and leaned on the banister.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

He straightened up. She sounded subdued. Gibbs set the chisel aside and narrowed his eyes at her in the dim lighting, trying to figure out if she was upset. She looked back at him expectantly; he decided she was fine.

"I could eat," he answered vaguely.

"I had a ton of paperwork keep me at work," she said tiredly. "I don't feel like cooking. You want me to order pizza?" she asked. "Or you could take me out," she added sarcastically.

Gibbs picked up his chisel again.

"Pizza's fine, Diane," he answered.

She retreated back upstairs. He put the chisel to the boat again and frowned. She really had sounded a little off, but he still wasn't bothered enough to go find out if there was something wrong with her. It could be one of her passive-aggressive tactics, or he could just be feeling guilty.

Usually, if Diane was pissed or upset about something, the whole world knew about it.

He wiped off his brow again and began working on the wood, turning his thoughts to Shepard and today's crime scene. It had been something that came off as a routine home invasion; the young petty officer had been clubbed in the head with a fire poker, valuables were missing, the lock was busted. His wife had been out of the state at the time.

They had been operating under the metro cops' information that it was just a robbery gone violent, until Shepard had announced that the way the petty officer's pocket was ruffled indicated something had probably been stolen from him.

That bit of information, confirmed by fingerprinting the inside of the pocket, had given the 'simple robbery' a more personal touch, and implied a motive that had more to do with the petty officer's personal life than his belongings. Burley was working on finding out what might have been stolen and Shepard, Gibbs was sure, was silently gloating over her impressive discovery.

Gibbs glared at nothing in particular. She'd done an excellent job beginning the interview with the lead metro cop, and then she'd effortlessly announced that she'd found a key detail to the investigation.

On her first day at a crime scene.

Gibbs snorted derisively.

It had to be a fluke.

Her file said she'd come out of FLET-C top of her class, with stellar recommendations, but mock crime scenes and textbook cases at FLET-C were nothing compared to the real deal and he had a hard time believing she was that good right off the bat. It was too good to be true.

Shepard had been suspiciously skilled at her job for the past week and a half, although today was her first true field experience—and the real test wouldn't come until she was in a weaponized, adrenaline-charged, dangerous situation. He figured he should put the team in the gym and on the range before that happened, just to see for himself that she'd hold her own if the need came up.

Gibbs licked his thumb and smoothed over a rough bit of the wood, dusting it off with his hand as he picked up his sander and started in with it again.

He was still wary of Shepard. He couldn't figure out what her motive was for joining NCIS. It was sexist, and he knew it, because he'd never cared or thought to wonder what any of his male colleague's reasons were, he just accepted that men were cops.

It wasn't just that Shepard was female; it was that she had a laundry list of shiny degrees and awards on her resume, things that seemed better suited for a Congressional kiss-ass or something. He sensed that she had deep motives—good motives.

She was a smart-ass, but she was interesting, and she didn't irritate him—though her personality had already clashed with him a few times, and it annoyed him to be caught off guard.

However, the annoyance, and the wariness, was helping him to pay no attention to how damn attractive she was. He had noticed it, but he was good at not thinking about it. He was, however, watching Burley like a hawk when it came to that, because he'd seen the young agent let his eyes wander over Shepard a few too many times for it to be harmless.

Muffled, the doorbell upstairs rang and Gibbs put his tools aside, stepping back to pour a mason jar full of bourbon.

A few minutes later, Diane was back at the landing of the stairs.

"Do you want to come get this or should I bring it down there?" she asked dully.

He narrowed his eyes.

"Bring it down here," he said calmly. "Hey, Diane," he called as she turned away. "Bring a bottle of wine," he said on a whim. He changed his mind and decided something was wrong with her, and a wave of guilt he couldn't exactly identify suddenly spurred him to try and do something about it.

She gave him a surprised look, and left to do what he'd requested. She came down the stairs with the neck of a half-empty wine bottle held tightly between two fingers and a box of pizza balanced on her wrists.

He helped her set everything down and she looked skeptically at her choice of wine glass: mason jar, or coffee-stained mug. He smirked and chose a mason jar for her; it was probably cleaner. She just rolled her eyes and uncapped the wine bottle. He noted that she poured herself a generous amount.

Diane pulled out a stool and perched on it, leaning on the wooden counter as she flipped open the box.

"I didn't think you'd be home," she said, "or I would have left work on time."

"You can do what you want, Diane," he said simply, not meaning it in a dismissive way.

He never really expected her to have dinner on the table when he got home. He looked at her critically, narrowing his eyes. She chose a piece of pizza and started eating half-heartedly.

Truth be told, Diane had dreaded coming home to an empty house when she didn't feel like being alone. She had received bad news about halfway through her workday, and the idea of going home on time and being reminded of the unsavory state of her marriage on top of that wasn't appealing, so she'd stayed to get ahead on paperwork.

If she had known Leroy would be here, she would have left the paperwork for another, better day.

"How was your day?" she muttered.

Gibbs leaned forward, putting his hands on the counter and looking at her sideways. He raised his eyebrows.

"Diane," he said pointedly, ignoring her question.

She looked at him, bristling.

"_What_?" she snapped.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Diane put her food down and pushed it away, drumming her fingers on the counter. She reached up to push her hair back and hid her face behind her arm, biting her lip. She shook her head and pulled her arm down, her eyes filling with tears.

"My mom called me at work," she said shakily. "Rusty's gotten worse," Diane whispered, shaking her head again. "Mom didn't even try to make it sound okay."

Gibbs frowned. Diane's older brother had AIDS, and had been declining in health for the past year. He lived in Seattle with his family, and Diane didn't see him much. She looked up at the ceiling, blinking, and swallowed, her cheeks pale.

"How much worse?" Gibbs asked practically.

"Oh, I don't know," she snapped. "Something about a white blood cell count that's depressing, and it's vital that he doesn't get sick right now," she bit her lip and her shoulders slumped. "Mom's keeping the kids. I could hear them in the background," Diane reached up and rubbed her forehead. "Leroy, he's only thirty-six," she whispered.

Gibbs pushed aside his bourbon and shifted forward, reaching out to put his hand on her knee. He gave her a comforting squeeze and tilted his head. She closed her eyes and pressed her nose into her palm.

"Ah, Diane," he muttered uncomfortably. He stepped closer and pushed her knees apart, stepping in between her legs. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and rested his chin on the crown of her head.

"It's not fair that he's so sick," Diane sobbed. "If he hadn't experimented with those _stupid_ goddamn drugs," she swore angrily.

Gibbs ran his hand over her hair and down her back. He couldn't say anything to Diane that would make her brother's rock-and-roll, heroin-infused past any cleaner, and he sure as hell couldn't cure AIDS. He didn't even try to verbally comfort her.

She put her hands on his arms and gripped him lightly, pulling back. She bit her lip, looking at him with red eyes. He looked back at her guardedly and moved his hands to her neck, stroking her skin gently. He leaned forward and kissed her, letting her draw away when she was ready.

Diane lifted her hand and wiped under her eyes, frowning a little. She licked her lips and swallowed, her cheeks flushing. She lowered her eyes and parted her lips uncertainly, tilting her head back up at him.

"You always do that," she said quietly, loosening her grip.

He furrowed his brow.

"What?" he asked, taken aback. "I do what?"

"You think if I'm upset, you can just kiss me, or," she fumbled for words, "or take me to bed, and it _fixes_ things," her voice grew angrier towards the end. "It doesn't work like that."

"Was it a bad kiss?" he asked, not really sure if he was trying to be funny or if he was serious or if he was just plain stupid.

Diane gave him a frustrated look.

"That isn't-!" she started. "That isn't the _point,"_ she started again. "The point—I need you for things that aren't physical, Leroy!" she said, trying to make him understand. He let go of her and stepped back, turning away a little. She put his hands back on the counter and leaned forward. "Having sex right now isn't going to help me feel better," she burst out. "Rusty is going to _die_—I _just_ need you to talk to me! Why can't you do that? Why can't you _ever_ do that?"

He gave her a dark look, clenching his knuckles. It always happened like this; he thought he was doing fine and then Diane's mood did a complete one-eighty on him. He thought he _was_ helping. He just glared at her, and he could see her getting angrier when he failed to answer her.

So, he held out his hands.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Something!" she cried. "I want you to say _something_!" she reiterated. "Just—tell me it's okay, or ask me what else the doctor's are saying or," she bit her lip. "You could at least try. You could tell me it will be okay!"

"It isn't okay!" he retorted bluntly, without thinkin about how much it would hurt her.

The colour drained from her face. She knew that as well as he did, but that didn't mean she wanted to hear it so harshly and insensitively. He could have kicked himself for unnecessarily being mean; he drew his hands back in passively and reached out to touch her shoulder.

She stood and yanked away, her hand flying to her hip.

"When are you going to get it?" she attacked viciously. "I am putting everything I have into this marriage, and it is _exhausting_," tears spilled down her cheeks. She threw her hand out. "I just want you to ask me how you can help me through this—I _need_ you to at least you pretend to care about my pain instead of using me as a sexual anti-depressant for _yours_."

She turned around and pushed her stool into the workbench, sending things tumbling and flying loudly.

"Diane!" he shouted aggressively, raising his voice over the ruckus. He started towards her a little, startled by her vehement outburst. It wasn't all that out of character, but it was more full of sadness than anger this time, and he was ashamed. "Diane," he said again.

"What?" she shouted back, whirling around at the foot of the stairs. "You know what it feels like to lose someone," she said desperately—and she knew instantly it was the wrong thing to say if she wanted to get anywhere with him.

"Don't," he growled dangerously.

"Leroy, I am trying so hard," she said. "I am—I am living in Shannon's shadow—"

"_Stop_," he snarled loudly.

She just raised her voice over his.

"I'm competing with a goddamn ghost and the least you could do is—"

"STOP, Diane—"

"—_try_ to love me as much as you loved—"

He cut her off by picking up his jar of bourbon and throwing it violently into the wall next to him, shattering glass all over the counter, the pizza, and her wine. She gasped in shock, her wet eyes flying wide open.

She looked terrified.

She narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth aggressively.

"How badly do you wish you had thrown that at me?" she asked viciously.

He felt empty, hollow, deflated. He didn't feel like fighting. He felt like drinking, or working. He'd give anything to be back at the office chasing down some asshole criminal right now. He looked at her in raw silence and then turned to stare bluntly at the mess he'd made.

He walked towards her slowly, shaking his head. He reached out and touched her shoulders, his eyes cold and distant.

"I'd never hit you, Diane," he said seriously. "I'd never throw stuff at you."

She laughed, the mirth absent from her eyes, the sound weak and choked with tears. She leaned back against the banister, her shoulders falling dejectedly, and she bowed her head, her hands shaking. She reached for him and held onto his hips, her forehead falling into his chest.

"Leroy," she moaned. "I'd _rather_ you hit me than hurt me the way you do."

He didn't know what to do, and he didn't want to bear the guilt of interpreting that, so he leaned forward to kiss her, and she ended up kissing him back, because she felt like giving up.

* * *

Jenny Shepard stood alone in her kitchen, munching on a bowl of the impeccable lasagna her father's housekeeper had been kind enough to cook and leave for her. Backtracking mentally, Jenny corrected herself—Noemi Cruz was no longer her father's housekeeper; she was Jenny's.

Jenny winced, annoyed that she was still in the habit of thinking of everything, including the townhouse, as 'her father's' or 'the Colonel's' even though he had been dead for a little over six months now.

She still didn't think of any of this as hers. She very often felt like she didn't have anything. The Colonel had raised her with tough love and she had been expected to personally earn everything she wanted—even after her father had been promoted to a position that meant they didn't have to worry about money anymore. For a time in high school, she had been bitter about it.

Now, she was starting to appreciate it.

She was starting to appreciate a lot of things about the Colonel that she never had while he was alive. She missed him more and more every day, which only angered her—grief was supposed to ease over time, was it not?

Jenny listened to the humming of the refrigerator behind her, and the dull lazy whirr of the air conditioning. For the first time since she had been pulled out of FLET-C because of her father's suicide—murder?—she felt like she had _direction_ in her life. She hadn't felt confident about her decisions since she'd chosen to attend Emory University back when she was eighteen.

Her soul-searching had been part of the reason she and the Colonel had such a falling out in the past few years; her choice to withdraw from law school and join federal agency had pissed him off. It was unbelievably cruel that the shock of his death had served to reconcile her with him.

Jenny finished the last bit of Noemi's lasagna and waltzed over to the sink, running hot water into the bowl and throwing a generous amount of soap in there, too. She licked her lips thoughtfully.

Six years ago, she never would have believed it if she'd been told that she'd end up a law school drop-out with a flimsy double-major, busting her ass as an amateur federal cop while she smarted under the cloud that an arms investigation had cast over her father.

She sure as hell wouldn't have believed it if she'd been told that the Colonel would wind up with a bullet in his skull, dishonorably discharged, and associated with betrayal, suicide, and disgrace.

Jenny smirked.

And at first, she never thought she'd end up being the only one who believed Jasper Shepard didn't kill himself. She didn't think she'd be that person who couldn't accept the facts—but she _couldn't._

She knew in her gut that bastard Benoit had murdered him, and she didn't plan on letting it go lightly.

Throwing the bowl haphazardly into the drainer, Jenny flicked off the kitchen light and retreated up the stairs to her bedroom—the master bedroom—where boxes were still half-unpacked. She had been in the process of moving back to DC, and into the master bedroom, for a month now.

Since starting at NCIS, she had less motivation—and less time—to finish up and get everything in order.

Jenny turned on her bathroom light and slipped off her heels on the rug, starting a bath for herself. It was eerily quiet upstairs, and she liked the noise of running water. She stripped off her work clothes and sat on the edge of the tub in her underwear, running her hands under the faucet to gauge the water temperature.

She thought of her new job. She had taken a fierce, immediate liking to it—it was gritty, hands on; interesting. She felt like she was doing something. It almost gave her a dizzying rush. It was empowering to go head-to-head with these chauvinists and _win_.

Jenny smirked and slid off the rest of her clothing, sinking into the filling bath with a breath of relief. She pulled her knees up and then let her hair down, letting the water soak the edges first and migrate up to the rest of her mane.

She was attracted to her boss—Gibbs. She was attracted to him, and it had infuriated her at first. She had berated herself for how childish and unethical it was to look at him and think 'what a fox'—but she had shrugged off the irritation at it after a couple of days.

It didn't matter if she was attracted to Gibbs. He was a good-looking man, and she could be attracted to someone without wanting to be involved with that person. Hell, she was attracted to Burley, physically, but she couldn't stand him. She was capable of maturely acknowledging that she was attracted to Gibbs without it interfering with her job—in fact, she hardly remembered to think about it while she was at work.

But at the moment, she wasn't at work. She was in a hot bath; and she _was_ thinking about it, and the fact that she'd learned he was married didn't deter her from continuing to think about it while she indulged in an innocent, salacious work-place fantasy or two and got herself off.

* * *

_References:_ NCIS Season 3 Episode "_Mind Games_" (Kyle Boone case/Paula Cassidy quotes), NCIS Season 4/5 story arcs _Jasper Shepard/the Frog,_ NCIS Season 3 Episode "Ravenous" (we discover that Shepard vomited during her first autopsy).

-_Alexandra_


	4. the (devil) Dogs of War

_A/N: Today I tackle my Russian and Biology Exams-and thus, I'm that much closer to home sweet home._

_I'm aware that in "Devil's Trifecta" we learned that Diane worked/s for the IRS; however, most of this was written before that canon fact was revealed and I have Diane's occupation as a physical therapist. It's too much integrated into the story to be changed. _

_Diane&Gibbs' Timeline:__ (for the purposes of this story) Ducky introduced them sometime in late 1993. Gibbs had been divorced since the beginning of that year. He and Diane get engaged in April 1994 and marry in November 1994. First wedding anniversary: November 1995; Gibbs ignores it/forgets it because he's just caught the Kyle Boone case. As you'll remember, it's currently early-mid 1996. _

* * *

_Chapter Three: the (devil) Dogs of War_

Gibbs slammed his fist onto his desk and stood up, shoving an empty coffee cup into the trashcan and storming out of the bullpen. Frustrated, Jenny pointed after him, her palm open and facing the ceiling. She resisted the urge to stomp her foot in a sort of tantrum and turned furiously to the boys.

"Where's he going?" she demanded.

"Coffee," they answered in unison.

Burley grinned. Decker just looked put out by Gibbs' annoyed exit. He went over to his desk and stood there frowning, picking up some papers and shuffling through them, his brow furrowed.

"He can't be mad at me because I couldn't figure out where Baker has been going!" Jenny protested angrily, clenching her fists at her side. Again, she had that ridiculous urge to stomp her foot. After such a stellar first two weeks at NCIS, she couldn't seem to do anything right _this_ week.

"Yeah, he can," Burley said with a shrug. He went back to his desk and lounged back in his chair lazily. "You said you'd find out."

"I told him I would _try_," Jenny retorted emphatically. "I didn't make him a promise!"

"Saying 'try' to Gibbs _is _like promising!" Burley said sarcastically. "He doesn't speak our language, he doesn't believe in dead ends! He's like Yoda or something!"

Jenny glared at Burley.

Burley rolled his eyes.

"Yoda, it's a Star Wars reference, Shepard—do or do not, there—"

"There is no try," Jenny interrupted caustically. She gave him a sour look. "I've seen Star Wars, _Steve,_ I grew up in the seventies."

Burley's smirk faded and he sat up, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Dammit, Shepard, _stop_ calling me that," he barked.

"That would require you to stop being so _insufferable_."

"You don't have to use your fancy college words to insult me, you can just call me an _asshole_."

"Cut it out," Decker said, giving them an annoyed look. "Gibbs is equally pissed at you both." Decker held up a few papers. "Let's go over these bank numbers again, maybe there's some kind of pattern."

"Like what?" sneered Burley reluctantly.

Decker shrugged.

"I don't know, something we can give to Gibbs when he comes back and expects us to have magically figured it all out," Decker retorted pointedly. Jenny walked over and stood next to him, taking one of the papers. She scanned over it tensely and shrugged.

"We've been over them ten times," she said dejectedly. "We know he's moving money around, we just don't know where."

"Good observation, Captain Obvious," Burley fired at her.

She whipped around, hand on her hip.

"Are you in the fourth grade?" she hissed at him.

Burley stuck his tongue out at her mockingly and she internally prevented herself from leaping across the bullpen and strangling his boorish neck. Decker shook his head, laughed under his breath, and grabbed her arm, pulling her back around to face him. He just gave her a look; sparring with Burley was hopeless—he was capable of driving even the best to incoherent rage, in which case he won by default.

"We've got to give him something," Burley muttered after a minute, picking up a stress ball and squeezing it thoughtfully. He propped his feet up on his desk, frowning, holding the stress ball close to his chin while he thought about it.

"Attitude adjustment?" suggested Jenny, rolling her eyes.

Decker snorted.

"Or a divorce," he threw out smugly. Jenny shrugged, looking over at Burley and his stress ball with annoyance. He glared back at her, just as annoyed by her presence. She and Burley didn't get along well.

He had backed off harassing her since Gibbs had scared him off it, but he had evidently decided Jenny was then his constant competition—and he treated any interaction they had as a direct personal challenge.

"His wife doesn't have anything to do with his job," Jenny said, slowly walking back over to her desk. She shrugged, turned around, and perched on the edge.

Burley snickered, and Decker gave her a look.

"Yeah, she does," he said. "Hate to break it to you, Shepard, but it really is as simple as that sometimes," he said.

"You're not going to convince me that Gibbs was fluffy puppies and rainbows before he got married," Jenny retorted skeptically, folding her arms and arching her brow.

"No," answered Decker slowly, smiling at her comment. "But he never went home normal and came back pissed. He was a little nicer—"

"—because he had to work to get some ass," Burley said.

Decker laughed, agreeing with Burley. Jenny rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders.

"Fine, then, his wife is a shrew," she said. "Why _doesn't_ he get divorced?" She asked impatiently, glancing at a clock. Gibbs had been gone about ten minutes; there was a chance he would come barging back in any moment.

They really _should_ be working.

"Have you _seen_ his wife? She's hot," Decker said bluntly.

"Really hot," agreed Burley, tossing his stress ball into the air. "And young, she's like nine years younger."

"Eight," Decker said. He whistled and nodded apologetically at Jenny. "Yeah, she's a looker."

Jenny rolled her eyes.

"How hot?" she asked seriously. "Like sultry Playboy hot, or Julia Roberts hot?"

The two of them stared at her.

"_What_?" Jenny demanded, glaring. It was as if the two of them had never heard of a woman being interested in how hot another woman was. Neither of them answered, but Decker cleared his throat.

"Uh," he said unhelpfully.

Burley let out a bark of laughter.

"I dunno, both? I'd like to see her naked," he admitted callously. "But hey—Julia Roberts is kind of Gibbs' type," he leered.

Decker snapped and nodded his head smugly.

"Yeah, if she looks like she did in _Pretty Woman_," he drawled.

"Are you insinuating Gibbs' type is a _hooker_?" Jenny asked, starting to get suckered into the nonsensical conversation. She forgot that she was supposed to be the one who was uptight about getting the job done, and stared at Decker.

"Nah," spoke up Burley. "Redheads." He paused in throwing his stress ball up and down and looked at Jenny wickedly. "Come to think of it, you're his type, Shepard," he said sarcastically. Jenny gave him a narrow, less than amused look. "If you're a natural redhead," Burley remarked lewdly.

"Stan, shut-up," Decker said, suddenly serious.

"No, it's okay, Deck," Jenny said coolly. "He has to find some way to compensate for his unfortunately small dick."

Decker fell silent, just looking at them both a little nervously. Burley gave Jenny a sour look and shrugged his shoulders, throwing the ball into the air again casually. He made a point of avoiding her eyes.

"His wife's better lookin' than you, Shepard," Burley said rudely. "That's how hot."

Jenny grit her teeth, but she was stopped from saying anything by Gibbs' untimely re-entrance into the bullpen. He approached them slowly, coffee in hand, looking (if possible) even more irritated. There was an odd silence in the room as the three subordinate agents tried to figure out if he'd overheard any of the conversation.

"Unless you're gonna tell me that Baker's been meeting my _wife_ at a hotel room when he disappears," Gibbs began dangerously, "I don't think how _hot_ she is has anything to do with the case."

Burley and Decker both flinched. Decker muttered a contrite something about 'never doing it again, boss'. Gibbs glared and held up his phone, shaking it.

"Grab your gear," he ordered roughly. "We got another one."

* * *

"What _is_ this?" Burley asked distastefully, pointing at smears of purple-ish goo that were all over the sleeves and arm of their current dead Marine.

Shepard looked up from carefully labeling an evidence bag full of cat hair and squinted her eyes. She leaned over and pursed her lips, taking the Marine's arm gently and examining the smears. She touched the substance gently with her gloved hands.

"Lipstick," she decided.

"Seriously?" Burley raised his eyebrows. She nodded. "Seriously, _lipstick_? It's purple!"

"Some women wear purple lipstick," Jenny answered, setting aside the cat hairs and turning to bagging-and-tagging the shards of glass that were shattered around the Marine. "Some men do, too," she added flippantly.

Burley still looked unconvinced.

He held the arm up.

"How would that look good on anyone? Deck—look," he beckoned Decker down to the body. "Shepard says it's lipstick—who wears purple lipstick?"

"It's more like mauve," Decker said.

"Huh?" Burley asked.

Jenny raised her eyebrows, biting back a smile as she waited for Decker to explain just _how_ he knew that this purple was really_ more like mauve_. Decker flushed a little and put his hands on his knees, crouching down.

"I dated this girl once who really liked purple," he said sheepishly. "Well, she liked black, but she wore purple make-up."

"So, you dated a vampire?" Burley asked, letting his inner smart-ass shine.

"Wiccan," Decker answered.

"Jesus, man, what kind of shit were you into in college?" Burley asked with a snort.

Jenny carefully zipped up a bag of glass and picked up her pen, smirking as she started to label the thing.

"College is an excuse for a whole slew of wild things," she remarked vaguely.

"I hope not too wild, my dear," Ducky broke in, bustling up to the group with his bag and assistant in tow. "Budge over a little," he said to Decker, kneeling down next to the dead Marine. "Gerald, my liver probe…"

Jenny stood up with her two evidence bags and took them over to the box they'd brought to store evidence in, glancing over as she listened to Gibbs talking to the victim's neighbor and her husband, both of whom had discovered the body. He was interviewing them quietly; asking them to recount everything that had happened from the moment they spoke to the Marine on the phone last night.

She listened with interest; focused on Gibbs' stoic, alert way of talking to people. He seemed to make them feel at ease and on edge at the same time—people trusted him, but she noticed that not everyone _liked_ him right away. It was easy to have confidence in Gibbs; he exuded reliability.

Jenny tucked a few escaping strands of her ponytail behind her ears. She swallowed and walked over to stand behind Gibbs, observing the interview. It was still expected of her to sort of treat crime scenes as a learning opportunity, even if she felt like she had the hang of this just fine.

Gibbs thanked the couple and got up, turning around and keeping his voice low.

"How much evidence is left?"

Jenny shrugged.

"Maybe a couple more bags," she said. "Burley's taking care of it."

Gibbs nodded.

"You and Decker make a trip to Forbes Elementary and pick up the wife," he said. "Get her permission to pick up their son at the high school, and take 'em back to NCIS."

"Should we tell them he's dead?"

Gibbs mulled it over and then shook his head a little coldly.

"Neighbor says it was a violent family, all of 'em," he decided. "Put them in separate rooms, and let 'em stew."

"Gibbs," Jenny said. "I can't put a fifteen-year-old by himself in interrogation and leave him in the dark. It's unnecessary!"

"I don't want the mother manipulating him if he can tell us something," Gibbs said, warning her with his tone not to question him.

"There's no reason I can't put them together in the conference room," she argued, in what she thought was a practical manner. He glared at her and held up his finger.

"Rule number one," he growled. "_Never_ let suspects stay together." He narrowed his eyes and walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers dismissively.

"What…rule…" she muttered, annoyed, turning around to ask him. He had already made it to Ducky, though, and was crouching down next to the Medical Examiner for the preliminary report.

Jenny frowned and bit the edge of her gloved forefinger, snapping the latex off with her teeth and tossing it into the box of evidence. _Rule_, she scoffed. She had been over the entire handbook like a pro, and she didn't remember any damn numeric list of _rules_.

* * *

Diane Gibbs leaned back in her chair, pushing a half-eaten salad away from her and shrugging, even though a shrug couldn't be seen during a telephone conversation. She felt like she did a lot of vague, non-committal shrugging these days.

"I've been trying not to think about it," she said honestly. "I'm more worried about you and the kids, Amanda."

"Oh, we're okay," Diane's sister-in-law said bravely. "It's been a reality for us for a while now, honestly. We're hangin' in there. The kids just spend a lot of time with him."

Diane smiled, thinking of her nieces and nephew, growing up so far away in Seattle. She tilted her head and pushed her hair back, lowering her arm as she listened to Amanda tell a story about the middle one and a sporting accident.

Diane laughed.

"God, he sounds just like Rusty," she said.

"Doesn't he?" Amanda responded. "Rusty was always so daring!"

"Yeah," Diane agreed, her smile fading a little. Daring, risk-taking Rusty, who'd gotten caught up in the seedy underground of punk rock and free love, only to end up experimenting with the wrong needle. "He was a regular Evel Kneivel."

"I'm sorry, Diane," Amanda said. "Rus and I are kind of used to joking about it. I didn't mean to sound careless."

"It's fine," Diane placated. "I'm just not dealing with the reality very well," she admitted, frowning. She closed her eyes, cleared her throat, and pushed on. "How is he today? He's home, right?"

"Sure is, he came home last night. He's been sleeping, mostly, but he's not sick. The doctors don't know. He could buck up and be fine for another year, or he could catch pneumonia and…well, that wouldn't be good."

Diane sighed.

"I thought he might be up if I called around lunch," she said, disheartened. She looked at her clock. She'd had a late lunch at her desk because a patient had requested an extra long rehabilitation session, and in the lull in appointments she'd decided to call her ailing brother's family.

"I'm sorry you can't talk to him," Amanda said again. "I really don't want to wake him up. He has trouble sleeping." she added, apologetic.

"Oh, of course, don't wake him! It's fine," Diane said sincerely. She pushed her hair back again and crossed her legs, looking at the unfinished salad on her desk. She adored her sister-in-law, but she desperately wanted to talk to her brother right now. She just wanted to hear his voice.

"Diane, you should come see us," Amanda said earnestly. "Rusty would love it—so would the kids! It's been so long—since before you married Leroy, hasn't it?"

She shook her head, biting a nail.

"No, I was in Seattle when Hannah was born," she said, speaking of her youngest niece.

"You guys weren't married then," Amanda said. "Were you? April of ninety-four?"

"March," muttered Diane. "Oh, no. No, I guess not," she corrected. "Maybe we'd just gotten engaged?"

Amanda laughed.

"You're a terrible wife," she teased.

Diane sighed.

"Sorry," she apologized vaguely. "It feels like I've been married an eternity."

"Ah, well," Amanda said, a little sad. "It feels like I haven't been married long enough. You want to trade?"

Diane smiled weakly. She bit her nail again, and didn't respond. She felt a little bad for saying that; Amanda really didn't have enough time with Rusty—but she couldn't help it. She spent so much time trying to figure out just where her relationship with Leroy became so torrential that she sometimes forgot when it began at all.

Amanda laughed again.

"Teasing you, Di," she said sweetly. "Really, though, come visit. Come for Easter! It's perfect. Your mother's coming to visit then, too."

"I don't know, Mandy," Diane said tiredly. "I don't think I can afford to be away from home. I need to work on my marriage."

Amanda stayed silent for a moment.

"Is it still bad?" she asked.

"I don't know," Diane muttered again. She leaned forward onto her desk and put her forehead into her hand. "Yes, and no. He comes home now."

Amanda sighed.

"Have you talked to him?"

"It is _impossible_ to talk to him," Diane snapped. "He starts to pretend he doesn't speak English," she laughed mirthlessly. Amanda snickered, and Diane went on, wary of the whole subject. "It's frustrating. I'll start thinking he's crossed the last line, and then he does something…sometimes, I understand how hard it was for Rusty to quit heroin."

Amanda clicked her tongue.

"You can bring him, Diane, our house is open to you both," she offered. "If you don't want to abandon your marriage while it's rough."

"Leroy and kids, though," Diane murmured. "Not a good idea—no, Amanda, I don't think so."

"He doesn't like kids?"

"It's complicated."

Diane closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. She heard her sister-in-law hesitate, and then Amanda cleared her throat, speaking up boldly:

"Diane, if you're really that unhappy—leave him. Why don't you just _leave_ him?"

Diane bit her lip, rolling her eyes.

"I can't," she said bluntly. "I think we can salvage it, Mandy, I do. We've only been married a year and a half," Diane paused. "I love him."

"I know," Amanda said. "I know. But you're unhappy."

Diane laughed a little.

"Yeah," she admitted. "But, I'm terrified of how unhappy I'd be if I didn't have him," she explained. "He's insufferable, and then he has these moments…really loving, caring moments."

"Oh, Diane," Amanda sympathized. "Well, I'm always here to talk. You keep a visit in mind, though. Rusty would love to see you. We all would."

Diane nodded.

"I will," she said sincerely. "I will. I've got to get back to work—but let me talk to the kiddos for a minute," she requested, brightening up.

Diane pushed thoughts of Leroy from her mind; she shoved away her conflicted feelings, and the pain that had been lurking in her heart since their horrible fight a couple weeks ago, and she ignored thoughts of Rusty's prognosis, too.

She heard Amanda hand the phone off to the kids.

"Aunt Diane! Aunt Diane—baby Hannah says 'hi', Aunt Diane…Abigail, stop hogging the phone—!"

Diane smiled, cheered instantly by the excited voices of her older niece and nephew.

* * *

"I don't have anything for you, Agent Gibbs," Miller said curtly, carrying a rack of test tubes from her desk to a machine in the lab.

Gibbs narrowed his eyes and jerked his thumb at his probie.

"You got anything for _her_?" he asked sarcastically. He knew Miller liked Shepard, and in the past few days, he'd grown suspicious that Shepard seemed to be able to magically get answers from the irritable lab tech.

Miller turned around, a hand on her hip, and glared at him.

"I am not trying to be difficult, Gibbs," she said. "I don't have anything on your case, and it has nothing to do with the fact that it's _you_."

"Coulda fooled me," muttered Gibbs, glaring at her. "You don't have _anything_?"

"You only brought the evidence in six hours ago!" Miller fired back, her eyes widening in disbelief. "Do you want me to _guess_ whose DNA _might_ be in the lipstick? Or do you want something that will hold up in court?"

"He wants something that will hold up in court," Shepard interrupted, stepping up beside Gibbs and folding her arms. He glared at her, and she shot him an annoyed look; Jenny didn't understand why Gibbs always had to antagonize Miller within an inch of her sanity.

"You've had the Baker case for five days," he growled.

"Yes," Miller agreed. "And contrary to your whimsical beliefs, I am _not_ a magician."

Gibbs frowned. He shot a look at Shepard, squinting his eyes for a moment, and then gestured around Miller's labs.

"You know, since the two of you are such good friends," he began mockingly, "why doesn't Shepard just hang around here and help you out?"

"Because it isn't _her_ job," Miller retorted. "Though I'm sure she'd jump at the chance to spend some time away from you, Gibbs."

This time, both of them looked at Shepard. Jenny lifted her eyebrows, a little amused at the opportunity. She thought about her response for a minute, for she wanted to say something that was the perfect mix of irritating and impressive to Gibbs. She had figured out the best way to stand up to Gibbs was to annoy him in a way that he found grudgingly respectable, in which case he just sort of stormed off.

"Your wish is my command, Boss," Jenny said sweetly. "Assuming I feel like being commanded," she added as an afterthought, pursing her lips.

Gibbs rolled his eyes and turned to go. He paused in the doorway and looked at Shepard, resting his hand on the doorframe. She looked back expectantly, waiting to see if he wanted her to remain with Miller or follow him.

"You feel like being _commanded_ now?" he asked growled warningly. He didn't like being told by this probie that his orders would be followed if they happened to be given when she was in a compliant mood.

"Are you sexually harassing me?" Jenny fired back bluntly, giving him the most serious face she could muster.

She could have sworn Gibbs actually turned pale.

"_What_?" he snapped.

The redhead shrugged brazenly.

"Your question could be interpreted as a sexual advance," she informed him primly. "I need to know if I should be offended," she paused and smirked. "Or flattered."

Gibbs gave her a mutinous look that hovered somewhere between angry and uncomfortable. His blue eyes darkened and he pointed at her aggressively.

"Stay here until Miller finds something," he ordered roughly, storming away.

Jenny waited until he heard the elevator _ping!,_ indicating it's arrival, and then looked over at Miller with a smug grin on her lips.

"You put him in an awkward position," Margaret said.

"Ah, well, the only way to handle Gibbs is to scandalize him," Jenny answered with a shrug. Margaret shook her head, bending to a microscope.

"I actually could use a helping hand, though," she said. "Come here for a second, I'll show you how to reload this microscope for me."

Jenny obediently walked to Margaret's side, bending down closely. She watched as Miller demonstrated how to fix the evidence onto a glass slide and insert it into the microscope. She also pointed out a clipboard where information could be recorded responsibly.

"Jenny," Margaret said, tilting her head at the woman who was quickly becoming a friend.

"Hmm?" Jenny asked, squinting at a little glass slide.

"You really should be careful, even if you're teasing Gibbs," she said honestly. "People around here won't need much to start gossiping about you and him."

Jenny scoffed.

She handed Miller one of the slides.

"What? You mean because of this myth I keep hearing about his penchant for redheads?"

"It isn't a myth," muttered Miller, bending back to her microscope. Jenny just laughed; shaking her head as she hit Margaret lightly on her lab-coat covered shoulder, and shrugged, entertaining the thought of a clandestine work affair for less than a second before setting it from her mind.

"Relax, Margaret, he's _married_."

Margaret just shrugged, her attention drawn intently to the evidence under her lens.

* * *

Jenny yawned.

This was the third time she had yawned in ten minutes, and she had not even bothered to stifle or mitigate this yawn. In fact, she yawned rather brazenly, intent on interrupting Gibbs' grumbling and perhaps incite some sort of coup.

Or, she'd just settle for shutting him up for a minute.

Before she could decide which end she was aiming for, she realized she had succeeded in the latter and straightened up slightly, clearing her throat. Decker and Burley were looking at her like she had taken a leave of her senses; Gibbs had stopped barking redundant criticisms at them and turned away from the case bulletin board to glare at her menacingly.

"Am I boring you, Shepard?" he asked narrowly.

"No. Your misanthropic reminders of how we've failed to solve the case are hilarious," she deadpanned.

Burley opened his mouth, staring at her like she'd grown a second head. Decker reached up and put his forehead into his hands. The two of them remained silent, trying to go unnoticed by Gibbs. It was as if they were watching their spoiled little sister push the babysitter _one_ too many times.

Jenny's resolve faltered just a little when Gibbs failed to say anything back. She realized he must be as frustrated as the rest of them were—perhaps he was even _tired_, if that were possible for a man who mainlined caffeine as if it were oxygen.

She sobered her features sincerely and set her shoulders back, making it clear that she was a little contrite for her sarcastic comment. He glared at her for a tense moment and seemed to unclench his teeth, pacing over to his desk. He rubbed his jaw, still silent, and behind his back, Burley made a motion at Shepard as if to ask her _what the hell she was thinking_.

"You aren't _cute_, Shepard," Gibbs said abruptly. He turned his back on her and focused on the bulletin board again. "Trying to be isn't going to catch a killer."

Annoyed at having the term 'cute' even sarcastically applied to her, Jenny retaliated before she could help herself:

"Neither is staring at the same circumstantial, unclear evidence that we've been looking at for days."

"_Jesus_, Shepard," muttered Burley, dragging his feet across the bullpen to his desk. He shook his head and gave her a dull look, exhaustion evident in his eyes as well. Even Decker looked at her, irritated, and Decker was usually on her side—or at least amused.

"You want to get out of here?" Gibbs growled aggressively. "Then _quit _yawning and _find_ something."

Jenny clenched her teeth. She bit back a response and crossed her arms, refusing to provoke him any further, if just for Decker and Burley's sakes. She wasn't afraid of Gibbs; he had done nothing yet in her short time here to make her legitimately fear him.

She respected his expertise—she even liked him; he ran his team like her father had run his army, and it made her feel in her element—but she wasn't scared of him. He was one of those men who would be a formidable, devastating enemy; but he was fiercely loyal like any Marine was and she was one of his team—she was protected in a weird sort of immunity.

She took advantage of that to enforce her resolve not to be pushed around.

"What do you want us to find in the middle of the night?" she asked calmly.

"Don't bring _us_ into this," Decker muttered tiredly.

"We were content listening to you bitch, Boss," Burley piped up. He then made a face as if trying to figure out if he'd earned or lost points by telling Gibbs he'd been bitching. It didn't seem to matter; Gibbs was too busy glaring at Shepard. He walked over to the board and un-tacked the crime scene photos; he handed them to Shepard, along with transcripts from the interviews that had done with the dead sailor's family.

"You want me to find something that isn't there, Gibbs?" she asked shortly.

"Well, Shepard, see if you can find me a metaphor for the killer," he retorted sardonically. Decker snickered, and Jenny shot him a look—she narrowed her eyes, wondering if Deck had told Gibbs' what she'd said about her English Lit major, or if Gibbs was just sharper than he let on about her background.

Jenny took the things he shoved at her and lowered her head, narrowing her eyes as she looked over them. She bit her lower lip in concentration, waiting until he had turned his attention away from her—thinking he'd put her in her place. Then, she neatly gathered the papers in an organized stack, walked over to his desk, and picked up his coffee cup.

Of which she promptly took a drink.

It was hot, but she was able to school her fingers so that her face didn't show that she'd badly burned her tongue with her ambitious sip. She heard Burley actually drop something in surprise, which of course induced Gibbs to whip around to see what she was doing.

She was swallowing, lowering the cup from her lips, and he grabbed her wrist, almost spilling it. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the smudge of lipstick she'd left and he took the coffee from her, his rough hand shoving hers out of the way, fingers brushing hers stiffly. She met his eyes defiantly, and cocked an eyebrow. He didn't let go of her wrist.

She'd gone too far; but she didn't care. She was tired. She wanted to go home and sleep.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Shepard?" Gibbs demanded.

"Come on, Jenny," Decker protested seriously. He cocked his head. "Rule twenty-three, Jesus," he hissed at her.

Jenny turned towards him with a skeptical frown, yanking her wrist away form Gibbs; his touch was getting hot in a way that made her briefly uncomfortable.

"What?" she scoffed, alert at the mention of another numeric rule. "Rule _twenty-three_?"

"Never mess with a Marine's coffee if you want to live," barked Gibbs.

She was so taken aback by the absurdity of what he'd said that she laughed.

"That isn't in the handbook," she said with a snicker, her eyes flashing.

"Not everything is in the damn handbook, Shepard!" Gibbs snapped.

"Oh? And whose _rules_ are these?" she asked sarcastically.

He pointed at himself.

"My rules," he fired back dangerously.

She turned up her nose.

"Should I crochet them on a pillow?" Jenny mocked boldly. "Didn't know I joined the boy scouts."

"No, you think you thought you joined the Justice League, _Wonder Woman_," Gibbs snarled back aggressively, once again disparaging her motives for joining NCIS.

She tossed her head; livid at the insinuation that she was looking to be some kind of Bond girl.

"Did you run out of Charlie's Angels cracks, Boss?" she provoked. Decker and Burley had long since chosen to remain silent, watching the exchange with a paralyzed mix of admiration and horror. When Gibbs seemed too frustrated to respond, Jenny attacked, flicking his coffee cup with her nail.

"You get on my ass about yawning, and you get on my ass about drinking your coffee," she pointed out. "You want me awake, but when you go on your holy little caffeine runs you don't offer to bring anything _back_," she grit her teeth.

"It isn't my job to keep you awake," Gibbs said in a voice that had gone dangerously low.

"No," she agreed. "It's your job to look after the needs of your _men_," she accented the last word sarcastically. "We're tired, Gibbs, and we're getting nowhere. I don't give a shit if you dread going home to your wife—I like going home to my bed—"

"We've got a case to close, Shepard!"

"The man was an egotistical son of a bitch who abused his wife and slept with other women on numerous occasions—forgive me if I don't want to sacrifice my beauty sleep to get him justice," she shouted, snapping a little.

She sucked in her breath and fell silent, leaving the room grave and tense. Gibbs' eyes bored icily into hers; his knuckles were white where he'd clenched his fist in the absence of holding onto her wrist.

"There ya go, Boss, she doesn't want to solve the cause because he's a wife beater," Burley said bitterly. "Women stick their emotions to the cases. It gets in the way."

Jenny did not even look at Burley, much as his comment lit her up. She continued to stare down Gibbs. She did not regret what she'd said—though she was beginning to regret how she'd said it, and that she'd made such a scene. Decker cleared his throat awkwardly. She was almost prepared for the next words out of Gibbs' mouth.

"Go home, Shepard," he said tightly.

She nodded.

"I'll just take my emotions with me," she said bitterly.

She turned and began silently gathering her things, shooting one vicious look at Stan Burley, as she got ready to go. What she had said to him needed to be said; he really was forcing them to work unnecessary hours on a case that didn't need to be solved immediately—but she had been rash, and she had tried to be an impressive smart-ass.

She slung her backpack over her shoulder, pushing hair behind her ear. She handed the files she'd thrown onto his desk to him passively and met Decker's eyes briefly before she left the bullpen, glancing at the clock as she did so. It was nearing one in the morning; she'd have to be back here in six hours, anyway, and now she wouldn't be able to sleep.

She walked to the elevator—and was surprised with Gibbs appeared next to her and silently got on with her. The doors shut, and he immediately reached past her to flick the emergency stop switch.

She subconsciously moved away from him, planting her feet and facing him a little, caught off guard. The lights in the elevator dimmed. He faced forward, remaining silent.

"Gibbs," she asked shortly. "What are you doing?"

"You going home," he said after a moment. "It isn't a reward."

She frowned, letting her guard down a moment. For a brief, ludicrous second she hadn't known what to expect—he'd shut off the elevator; he could have been planning to attack her. But something told her Gibbs was not the type to ever lay a hand on a woman, no matter how angry she made him; he was too much of a chauvinist.

She frowned and looked at her feet.

"I know," she conceded quietly.

She bit her lip angrily and stared straight ahead. She sensed him turn towards her and she continued looking straight ahead.

"Look at me," he ordered

She lifted her head, and obeyed.

"You're a Probie," he said bluntly. "You got to learn that I don't care what you _think."_

She swallowed hard, and nodded. He reached over and turned the elevator back on, silently turning back to face the doors. He waited until they'd reached ground level and waved his arm a little mockingly, letting her off the elevator.

"Get that chip off your shoulder, Shepard," he said pointedly, stepping off the elevator behind her.

She turned around sharply, starting to say something, but her words caught in her throat and her lips paused, parted. Her brow furrowed as she watched the elevator doors close behind him. She tilted her head, slowly twisting her mouth in uncertainty.

"Are you _walking_ me to my _car_?" she asked incredulously, suddenly forgetting everything she was mad about.

He spread his arms out, surprised at her sudden subject change.

"It's after midnight," he said, as if she had asked an obvious question.

"Yeah," she agreed slowly, narrowing her eyes.

He walked forward, gesturing around to make her get a move on.

"'M not letting a woman go walking around a deserted parking lot at night," he said gruffly.

"I'm a federal agent," she said.

He smirked at her.

"Barely," he said pointedly.

She stared at him and then laughed, not even sure how she felt anymore.

"That's…you're…" she paused, fumbling for the words, "infuriating!"

He shrugged. She turned on her heel and stormed off towards her car, trying to process the strange mix of gentleman and macho chauvinist that Gibbs mastered so inconceivably well. She unlocked her car and pushed her hair back, staring at him over the top of it with narrow, guarded green eyes.

"You're not getting assaulted on my watch," he said bluntly.

She grit her teeth, trying to hide the odd, inexplicable amusement that he was giving her. She pointed at him with her car key threateningly.

"You better hope I don't assault _you_, Gibbs," she asserted brusquely, bending down and sliding gracefully into her car. She heard him laugh as she slammed her car door and started the engine.

She paused with her hands on the wheel before she backed out, leaning back and staring at her hands with a mixture of consternation and exhilaration. She was not totally sure if she had been chastised or if she had been handed some sort of subtle _praise_ from Gibbs.

Jenny shook her head and backed out of her parking spot, flicking her headlights on deftly. As she pulled out of the lot, she reached over and rubbed her wrist, right where the pulse was, vaguely remembering the hot strength of his hand there—and she pushed to her subconscious the adrenaline rush sparring with him elicited; she didn't care to consider how good it felt, or what it could make her want.

* * *

Left alone in the silence that descended after Gibbs had chased Shepard out of the bullpen and onto the elevator, Decker and Burley looked at each other uncertainly. Burley leaned back at his desk, crossing his legs and propping them up. Decker sank down into his chair slowly, slouching. Neither said anything.

"So, you think he's gonna kill her?" Burley asked after a moment, raising his eyebrows.

Decker looked resigned.

"That's a little extreme," he said, not sure he was convinced.

"He followed her to an empty parking lot," Burley hinted. "Shepard's small; he could snap her neck."

"Burley, damn," swore Decker, giving his colleague an annoyed look. "A little violent, don't you think? Gibbs isn't going to _murder_ Jenny."

"He could get away with it," Burley said, snickering. "No one would dare accuse Gibbs of murder."

"Someone already has," Decker muttered. Burley perked up, but Decker changed the subject, shrugging and turning to the bulletin board so he wouldn't have to answer any questions on the subject. There was no need for Burley to know about Major Lara Macy and what had almost happened when Gibbs was still in the Corp. Most of the people who knew about that were back in California, and Decker only knew because Mike Franks had known.

Burley shrugged and rummaged around for his ever-present stress ball, beginning to throw it up to entertain himself. He smirked.

"You think Gibbs and Shepard'll sleep together?" he asked wickedly.

"_What_?" spluttered Decker, staring at his partner.

Burley held his hands out innocently.

"What do you mean, _what_?" he scoffed. "Oh, come on, Bill, you know it could happen—she's always at his throat."

"And that means she wants to _sleep_ with him?"

"Well, I dunno about Jenny," Burley said, rolling his eyes. "Gibbs, though, he's not blind, and it'd probably calm her down."

"Stan, do you think we're working in the sixties?" asked Decker incredulously. "She's always butting heads with him because she hasn't learned to pick her battles yet—and Gibbs is a jackass, you ever think about that?"

Burley shrugged.

"Ah, yeah, you're right," he decided slowly. He threw the ball up into the air and then caught it, pointing at Decker meaningfully. "But I think Gibbs likes it," he said smugly.

"Likes what?"

"When she talks back to him," Burley said. "He wouldn't take that bull from either of us. Think it turns him on," he added.

Decker laughed.

"Don't be sexist over there, Stan," he said, rolling his eyes. "Gibbs doesn't take crap from us because we never _give_ him crap, you ever noticed that? Shepard's got guts."

"And a hell of a rack," Burley said. Decker shot him a warning look. Burley threw his stress ball into the air again. "Yeah, like you haven't looked," he said dismissively, snorting at Decker.

"I don't look at her like she's _just_ a 'nice rack'," Decker fired back. "_That's_ the difference."

Burley stopped throwing the ball. He considered Decker for a moment and frowned a little, thinking about the accusation. Then he squeezed the ball in his hands and swallowed, choosing to stop speaking for a minute. He didn't think he looked at Shepard like nothing more than a piece of ass—but then again…

…Burley shrugged.

"You want to make a bet about Gibbs and Shepard?" he asked impishly, grinning.

* * *

It wasn't long after the showdown with Shepard that Gibbs threw in the towel and told the team to go home. He turned off all the lights, frustrated, and went home himself—it was two in the morning and there didn't seem to be any point to it, but then, Shepard had been right; there was no point in trying to solve a case at such an hour when there was no new information.

On any given night, when he came home this late, he retreated to the basement to either work tirelessly on the boat, or to sleep on the cold hard concrete beneath it; he didn't care to wake Diane, nor did he feel like he missed out by not sleeping in bed with her. He acted differently tonight, and he couldn't quite tell himself why.

He was quiet coming in and quiet throwing his stuff onto his counter in the basement; he didn't even take a minute for the boat. He went upstairs and walked into their bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He stripped off most of his clothing and kicked it against the wall. Diane was asleep on her back, one arm flung onto his side of the bed, the sleeve of her t-shirt pulled down to reveal her bare shoulder.

He did not intend to wake her up, he just subconsciously felt like he needed to be in bed with her tonight; he felt like reminding himself that he was married and he needed to start acting like it again.

Gibbs got into bed next to her and gently pushed her arm over to her side. He rolled onto his side and squeezed her shoulder softly, leaning over to kiss the exposed side of her neck. Diane cleared her throat groggily and shifted away, blinking at him hazily.

"You're home?" she asked thickly.

He nodded.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he said gruffly, settling down. He ran his hand up and down her arm absently, just for the sake of touching her. Diane shifted around, trying to get comfortable again. "How's your brother?" he asked after a minute.

She rubbed her forehead sleepily.

"He's dying," she said flatly.

"It'll be okay, Diane," he forced out hollowly, squeezing her shoulder again. She lowered her hand and looked over at him. She turned to her side and curled up next to him, placing her hand on his chest lightly.

"Thank you," she whispered, resigned.

She fell back to sleep quickly, hardly having woken up in the first place, and he stayed awake all night, thinking about Shannon, thinking about work, and methodically stroking Diane's arm.

* * *

Jenny Shepard was wide-awake when she darted onto the elevator the next morning. She was refreshed from a morning run and eager to redeem herself with Gibbs; she had come straight from her work out to work, a bag of professional clothes over her shoulder. Jenny got off the elevator quickly; ignoring the somewhat surprised look a fellow agent gave her gym clothes as he stepped past her.

"Where's Gibbs?" she asked expectantly, catching sight of Burley as she approached the bullpen.

"Uh, morning, Shepard," Burley said, looking at her skeptically. He raised her eyebrows at her beyond casual attire and glanced around. "I dunno, he was here a minute ago."

Jenny frowned and walked to her desk impatiently, dropping her gear and her change of clothes down heavily. She bent forward to grab a file on her desk and look over it quickly. Burley glanced around and then looked over with interest, his eyes falling on the edge of her gym shorts.

"Stop it," Decker hissed in his ear, walking into the bullpen. He cleared his throat. "Morning, Jenny," he said uncertainly.

"Oh, hey, Deck," she said. She looked over her shoulder, straightening a little and putting her hand on her hip. "I'm going to change, I just had a thought…" she trailed off. "Where's Gibbs?" she asked again.

"Dunno," answered Decker. "You better change before he sees you, though," he added helpfully. Jenny looked at her bag and frowned.

"If he finds out I'm getting ready for work in the bathroom he'll give me hell," she said smartly. "I need to tell him something," she added, looking back at the file. She nodded to herself, biting her lip.

Burley looked at Decker and then walked around his desk.

"You got something on the case?"

"Just a hunch," she said. "Gut feeling," she muttered.

"Kiss-ass," laughed Burley. Jenny whipped her head around and glared at him. She snatched the file off her desk and held it under her arm, turning around sharply to exit the bullpen in search of Gibbs.

She swiveled around and started off so quickly that she barely registered the blur of a person walking _in_ to the bullpen until she had slammed directly into him. She grunted, the breath knocked out of her by his arm as he flung it out to try and stop her; he dropped his coffee and she flinched as the top popped off and spilled all over the file, her shirt, his jacket, and their shoes.

Burley gave a low, muted whistle behind them and Jenny could feel even Decker staring in disbelief.

Her eyes watered and she grit her teeth; his coffee was hot, but it wasn't scalding. She pressed her lips together and winced, looking up at him hesitantly; so much for getting back in Gibbs' good graces.

"Gibbs," she began calmly.

"You better have a _damn_ good explanation," he snapped back his eyes flashing dangerously.

"It's world war three," Burley said, watching like a deer in the headlights. "Just back away, Jenny," he said earnestly.

Jenny bit her lip, faltering in her certainty, and Gibbs shoved past her, kicking his empty coffee cup towards the trashcan. She turned around, making a face as her clothes clung to her in an unpleasant, sticky way. She leaned onto Gibbs desk to keep his attention and he looked at her murderously.

He started to order her to back away from him, but he stopped, distracted momentarily by the worn, now wet, pale yellow t-shirt that was clinging to her, and the flushed, mildly burned patches of skin on her arms.

He blinked.

"Gibbs," she said, oblivious to his distraction. "How _sure_ are you that Major Earl's wife killed him?" she demanded.

"She did it," Decker answered for him. "We just can't really prove it."

Gibbs nodded curtly.

Jenny shook her head.

"No," she said. "No, we're going by the lipstick smears to accuse her, but there's so much—no woman wears that much lipstick, Gibbs," she insisted. "But if someone, say a teenager, wanted to make it look like it was a domestic tussle gone wrong, he might smear—"

Gibbs took off his stained jacket, throwing it into his chair.

"You think the son did it?" he scoffed. "Shepard, he was at school."

"His counselor says! She could be protecting him!"

Gibbs looked like he was going to blow her off. He bent to pick up the empty coffee cup, shot her a glare, and walked past her again. She grabbed his arm, leaning in closely.

"Gibbs," she said firmly. "If you're fifteen, and your father beats the shit out of your mother, and cheats on her, and verbally abuses you, and you have access to a gun—what do you do? What do you _do_?"

Gibbs narrowed his eyes at her. He studied her intently for a minute and then nodded, looking over at Burley and Decker and shaking his arm out of her grip.

"Pick up Donny Earl," he ordered.

Jenny started to go for her gear but Gibbs stopped her, throwing a set of keys to Decker and shaking his head at her as Burley and Deck went off towards the elevator. Gibbs gestured at her coffee-spoiled gym clothes vaguely, his eyes skating over her in a way that was almost guilty.

"Clean up," he ordered gruffly. "Change clothes."

She looked down at herself and blushed, slowly letting go of her gear. She picked up her duffle bag and nodded, tugging on the edge of her shorts. She hadn't realized how short they were until his eyes lingered on her legs.

"Yeah," she agreed awkwardly, nodding her head.

He nodded curtly in response and walked away, pausing at the edge of the bullpen.

"How do you take your coffee?" he asked.

She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, a little surprised.

"The exact opposite of you," she said smartly.

He smirked and stalked off.

Perhaps she had redeemed herself after all.

* * *

Special Agent Stan Burley found Miller and Ducky together in autopsy and he grinned, opening his arms in a sweeping, welcoming gesture. He had a file in each hand.

"And I kill two birds with one trip," he said, modifying the idiom. He wiggled the files and approached an autopsy table, checking to make sure it was clean before he smacked the files down. He pointed to each with his index fingers. "Autopsy report, forensics report."

"Which case is this?" Miller asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and turning away from her conversation with Ducky.

"Earl," Burley answered. "Uh, the one with the purple lipstick and the violent home life?"

"Ah," Ducky said. "Gibbs got the wife to confess?"

"No," Burley said, holding up a hand dramatically. "In a fun twist, Shepard figured the son might have been the killer. Gibbs got the counselor to confess that she'd covered for the son, and then Shepard pulled a confession right out of the kid."

"Jenny got an interrogation?" Miller asked, lifting neat eyebrows. "I wouldn't think Gibbs would let her after only a month."

"Yeah, well, he was supervising from the other room," Burley said. "And technically, Decker was the interrogator, but the kid talked to Shepard."

Miller got up and walked over, her shoes clicking as she did so. She picked up her file and looked through it, making sure everything she'd need for her records was there. She nodded approvingly and punched Burley affectionately in the shoulder, smiling at him. He grinned charmingly and winked.

"You think you can tell Shepard to learn a little from you, Mags?" he asked, flashing a toothy grin at her. Miller raised an eyebrow mildly and tilted her head.

"What's that mean, Stan?" she asked.

"Teach her to fall for my dashing personality?" Burley tried. Miller laughed, shaking her head.

"You give her a hard time, Stan, she dishes it right back," she teased. "Not really my problem. I _like_ Jenny."

"Yeah, yeah, you women gotta stick together," Burley drawled good-naturedly. "She's trying to upstage me," he pouted.

Miller shrugged and closed her file, looking him in the eye smugly.

"She doesn't have to try much, does she?" the lab tech teased.

Burley flashed a grin at her again and she pursed her lips, walking past him and shaking her head with an indulgent smile.

"She'll never upstage me in your good graces, right, Margaret?" he flattered. The woman smirked as she headed for the exit, her ponytail swinging. Burley grinned and strolled towards Ducky, listening as the autopsy doors opened and closed with two _swishes_. The medical examiner smiled warmly at Burley and held out his hand to receive the report.

"Stan, I'm surprised," Ducky said knowingly. "I had thought for sure you and Miss Miller had called it quits."

Burley scoffed.

"We're not a thing," he said. Ducky looked at him skeptically. Burley shrugged. "What? We're _not_. Particularly as far as Gibbs is concerned," he added, glaring at Ducky. The doctor smiled, nodding his head as he pushed his glasses up on his nose and opened the file to examine it.

"I see," Ducky said. "Gibbs doesn't approve of the fraternization," he mused.

"Ha," Burley laughed. "'Cause he thinks he's still in the Marines, and the Marines don't allow it," he rationalized.

"Once a Marine, always a Marine, Stan," Ducky reminded the young man.

"Well, Miller and I ain't Marines," Burley said lightly, a smirk crossing his lips. "And we like to sleep together when Gibbs' back is turned. It's convenient, y'know, since Gibbs keeps me at work so much."

Ducky smiled knowingly and nodded, closing his file.

"Seems to be in order," he said, changing the subject. He lowered his chin to look at Burley over the nosepiece of his spectacles. "Was there something else, Agent Burley?"

"Yep," Burley said eagerly, reaching out to elbow Ducky gently. "Guess what Gibbs did earlier."

"I am not a fan of guessing games," Ducky said, pointing at Burley. "I think you know that."

"Fine, take the fun out," Burley said with a shrug. He glanced behind him and lowered his voice. "Gibbs got Shepard a cup of coffee," the agent announced dramatically, trusting that Ducky would appreciate the rarity of such an event. He stared proudly at the medical examiner, waiting patiently for a reaction.

The Scotsman's brows went up significantly.

"Did he?" he asked, interested. "That is very…strange of Jethro."

Burley nodded eagerly.

"Yeah, isn't it?" he said quickly. "That's what I said! Deck said it was just Gibbs giving her a vote of confidence for figuring out the kid did it, but it's got to be something else, right? I mean when Deck or I do anything good he just kind of holds back on the head-slaps—he doesn't give us treats!"

Ducky laughed, his eyes sparkling.

"You make it sound as if Gibbs sees you all as his dogs."

"Uh, Gibbs _does_ think we're his dogs," Burley said, as if it were obvious. "He's the alpha male, and we're the neutered lackeys."

"That's imaginative," Ducky said. He stood up, taking the file over to his filing cabinet and opening one of the drawers with a key. "However, if Gibbs is your, ah 'alpha male'," Ducky said carefully, "It may be that his way of establishing dominance over a female is different than his method with you and William."

Burley snickered.

"Yeah, Ducky, I think we all know how that works in the animal kingdom," he drawled with a smirk. "Hey, I'm thinkin' 'bout starting a pool, like betting on the two of 'em—"

"Christ, Stan, you're not still talking about that?" Decker walked in, standing in the doorway with an annoyed look. He thrust his thumb over his shoulder. "Gibbs wants to see you before you head out," he said, his own backpack in hand. He waved and gave a quick goodbye to Ducky before giving Burley a warning look. "Just stop with the random gossip, you old hen."

Burley grinned and waved Decker off, saying his own goodbye to Ducky and heading up to see what Gibbs wanted.

* * *

Shepard got on to the elevator as Burley got off; he nodded to her cordially and she nodded back, giving him a smile. She looked pleased enough with herself—but then again, Stan figured he'd be pretty smug if he'd earned a cup of coffee from the Bossman.

"Hey, Gibbs," Burley said, strutting into the bullpen and picking up his things. He glanced at his watch; it was about an hour after they usually got off, but it was good timing when it came to Gibbs' clock. "You wanted me?"

"Yeah," Gibbs said gruffly, not looking up from the reports he was double-checking right away. He waited a moment, letting Burley just hang. Gibbs had waited until they were finished with the case to talk to Burley, and he didn't want to make it easy for the guy.

He heard Burley shift, growing uncomfortable, and looked up, narrowing his eyes.

"You said something to Shepard the other day," Gibbs said ominously. He stared at Burley, and the other agent looked back in genuine confusion, his brow furrowing. Gibbs let him hang for another moment before clarifying in a low voice: "Something about her natural hair colour."

Gibbs made it clear he knew exactly what Burley had been insinuating.

Burley swallowed, setting his jaw. His features fell and he frowned, looking towards the elevator that Shepard had just gotten on. His face turned sour and he glared mildly.

"She told you?" he asked bitterly. That had been days ago, right before they'd gotten the Earl case—back when they were fighting over Baker! It was underhanded and petty of Shepard to—

"No," Gibbs said bluntly. "Overheard it," he said seriously. Burley winced, suddenly remembering. It had been part of the conversation about how hot Diane was, and they had all been wondering just how much Gibbs had overheard. Burley looked at Gibbs, resigned, waiting for the next words out of his mouth.

Gibbs stood up, holstering his gun, and for a minute, Burley thought maybe that's all he was going to get—maybe Gibbs was just going to let it go with a sort of silent warning. That was sort of a Gibbs thing to do, conveying a threat without speaking. Then again, Burley should have known that in this case, that would be too easy. Gibbs was old fashioned, and Shepard was a woman.

Gibbs turned off his desk lamp and walked over to Burley, looking the younger man dead in the eye intently.

"What you said," he began coolly, "could be interpreted as harassment."

"Boss, I was just," Burley faltered. "Man, Gibbs, I was just screwin' with her, you know, like I would any guy."

"She's not a _guy_, Stan," Gibbs said. Burley widened his eyes slightly. It was probably the second time Gibbs had ever called him by the right name. "There are different rules in play."

"Okay," Burley said.

"She works here," Gibbs growled. He glared at Burley a moment longer for good measure and backed off a little. "Show her some respect."

Burley nodded, lowering his eyes. Gibbs turned and walked out of the bullpen, satisfied that Burley would back off a little. He knew Shepard would dislike what he'd just done; she'd interpret it as some idiotic move to assert his masculinity and protect her—but Gibbs didn't give a damn what Shepard disliked, and he didn't plan on her finding out about it.

He'd called Burley out because it didn't sit well with him to hear Shepard demeaned so Burley could make _himself_ feel like the better agent.

* * *

Gibbs was almost proud of himself, getting home at a reasonable hour for the fourth time this week—and this time, he'd done a seriously uncharacteristic thing on a whim, choosing to attempt to make the upcoming weekend less tense. He shut the front door loudly, glancing around the house.

It smelled like there was some cooking, the television was on, and Diane was sitting on the couch watching it, her feet propped up on the coffee table. He walked towards her slowly. Her hair was up in a loose bun, and as he got closer, he noticed she was in the same sort of lazy work out clothes Shepard had come to work in this morning.

He leaned down on the back of the couch, tossed his coffee-stained jacket down, and tapped her gently on the shoulder with the couple sunflowers he'd stopped to pick up for her.

Mildly startled, she turned to look at him, leaning away. She raised her eyebrows, opening her mouth wordlessly, and stared at the flowers. A little hesitantly, she looked up at him and narrowed her eyes.

"What did you do?" she asked shortly.

He smirked.

"Nothin'."

"I don't feel like playing games, Leroy," she sighed.

He shrugged and tapped her again with the flowers, waiting until she reached up slowly and accepted them, still looking at them suspiciously. She tilted her head, brought them to her nose, and snorted, glancing at him through her lashes.

"Honestly, Leroy, you are scaring me," she said dully.

He reached over to her hand and lightly tapped her engagement ring.

"Anniversary," he said gruffly.

She stared at the engagement ring and then shifted to really look at him, raising her eyebrows tentatively. She held up the flowers, biting her lip.

"These are for our anniversary?" she asked skeptically. He nodded. "The anniversary…of when you asked me to _marry_ you?"

"You didn't know it was today?" he asked smugly, making fun of her a little. She gave him a look and swatted him; of course _she_ remembered the day she'd been proposed to.

"I'm shocked," she said dryly. "Frankly, Leroy, I didn't think about it. You ignored our actual anniversary."

He gave her a half, almost apologetic smile, but didn't say anything. He reached out and slipped his hand onto her neck, tilting her head up for a kiss. She kissed back, and then pulled away, grasping his wrist gently. She stood up and muted the television.

"There's something to eat if you want it," she offered, carrying the flowers to the kitchen for a vase. He followed her lazily; it still felt tense in the house, and the tension was pushing him to retreat to the basement. He resisted, resolving again to try—as long as she didn't want to talk too much, he could try.

Diane busied herself—almost too intently—with the flowers, and when she was finished, she sighed and leaned against the counter, one hand braced on the tile, one hand on her hip. He stood in the doorway, watching. She tilted her head back and looked at him with a frown.

"What?" he asked after a moment, sensing something was up.

"Leroy," she said, almost under her breath. "Are you having an affair?" she asked bluntly, her eyes meeting his in a very straightforward, honest manner. He stared back at her blankly for a minute before his brows went up in legitimate surprise.

"No," he answered harshly, the denial coming out coldly. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"I hate to ask when you're obviously being nice," she said, gesturing at the flowers, "but it's been," she paused, and bit her lip. "I don't know. I thought I'd ask. I—you're not?"

"No," he said again.

She bit her lip again, looking at him searchingly. She nodded and turned towards the counter, bracing both arms against it.

"I'm sorry," she said numbly. "You've been acting—I wondered if the nice gestures, the coming home early were out of guilt," she paused again. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he snapped. "I'm not having an affair, Diane," he growled.

She nodded again.

"You smell like perfume," she said.

He held an arm out in annoyance.

"My new agent's a woman," he said. "Told you that," he added. He plucked at his shirt and breathed in; unable to tell if he smelled like whatever Shepard wore at work. He figured the scent might have stuck to him after their coffee collision fiasco.

"Okay," she said, taking a shaky breath.

"Diane, you think I'd be stupid enough to come home with some other woman's perfume on me if I was cheating?" he demanded.

She looked over at him and smirked.

"Good point," she said hoarsely. She reached out and touched the flowers, reassured. She was able to read Leroy's guarded eyes fairly well, and she knew he wasn't lying. He was too much of an honorable man to be able to lie through his teeth about an affair. She smiled tiredly and shrugged. "Thanks for the sunflowers," she said.

He looked at her with a set jaw, responding with a tight, insincere smile. He wondered if human resources would jump down his throat if he told Shepard to quit wearing perfume to work. Diane's suspicion annoyed him, but his gut told him he had reacted a little too defensively. A nagging feeling of implacable guilt pissed him off, too; it was unfounded.

He _wasn't_ having an affair.

* * *

References: NCIS Season 1 Episode "_Yankee White_" ("crochet them on a pillow", as well as the first mention of Rule #1), Star Wars; _ESB_. The West Wing; Season 2 Episode "_And it's Surely to Their Credit_" ("she works here"), The Justice League/Wonder Woman (DC Comics), NCIS Season 6 Episode(s) "_Legend_" (Lara Macy investigates Gibbs), Shakespeare's _Julius Caesar_ (title); Marine slang/jargon ("devil dogs").

**Note on Rule #1**: In the first episode, it is listed as "Never let suspects stay together". It's later changed to "Never screw over your partner" (Blowback).

_Feedback/Reviews are appreciated and make me really happy :)  
__-Alexandra_


	5. Bulls-eye

_A/N: I fly home to Tennessee today! Christmas in Dixie-ain't nothin' better._

_"Head Canon" Note: In my head/universe (and for the purposes of this story) Gibbs' first ex-wife post-Shannon was a lawyer named Stacy. He married her far too soon after Shannon's death (as noted by Mike Franks in Season 6 Episode "Deliverance", though the name of the wife isn't mentioned) and it ended sometime circa late 1992/earl 1993. _

* * *

_Chapter Four: Bulls-eye._

Gibbs winced as he whacked his thumb with the hammer again. An angry, dull throbbing seared up his arm and he pulled his hand away from the boat, holding his thumb to his lips and glaring violently at the hammer. He flung it down, turning away and rubbing his forehead roughly.

He figured if he hit himself with a hammer once, it was forgivable—but if he did it twice in ten minutes, it was time to stop working on the boat. The woodwork wasn't therapeutic if he was abusing the hands he needed to build it. It wasn't that he had suddenly become incapable of handling the hammer; it was the distractions that kept creeping into his usual isolated basement.

Diane had a friend over, the mother of her youngest patient. The five-year-old girl currently running around upstairs had been in a car accident that required physical therapy to help repair an almost paralyzing leg injury; under Diane's guidance, the kid had almost regained full mobility.

Gibbs never protested when Diane had guests over, though he'd sometimes grumble about it if he were expected to eat dinner with whomever it was, but she'd come home from her Saturday half-day at the clinic and warned him last minute that her friend was coming over, daughter and new baby in tow. And he'd retreated to the basement; loathe to associate with unfamiliar people.

He hadn't thought he'd be bothered once he holed himself up in the basement but he'd been wrong; the kid upstairs kept skipping across the floors and every time he heard the light, uncertain childish feet scamper above his head he winced—and he hit his thumb with the hammer—because a devastating kind of post-traumatic stress had his heart slamming into his ribs and thinking, just for the barest of seconds, that Kelly was running around his house again.

Gibbs picked up a mason jar and looked at the bourbon in it, staring with hollow, hurting eyes. If she didn't have a friend over, he might drink a little too much and venture upstairs with bloodshot eyes and go to bed. Diane was good when he was drunk; she'd curl up next to him and rest her hand on his forehead. She was too good to him, sometimes.

That wasn't an option right now.

He stared at the bourbon, refusing to drink. He looked at the workbench, and at the tools spread out there. He grit his teeth as the kid ran across his floors again. He may have flinched. He shoved the glass away unceremoniously and wiped his hands off on a towel.

Gibbs picked up his pager and clenched his fist. He went up the stairs quickly, overcome with the need to just be out of the damn house. It was dinnertime on a Saturday; he was going to work anyway. He couldn't handle being here right now.

"He's just the cutest thing," Diane was saying, as Gibbs walked into the laundry room.

"Diane," he called gruffly.

"Yeah?" she answered lightly. He heard her moving around. He started to leave the laundry room, beeper in hand, when the little kid whose footsteps had been plaguing him peeked around the door at him and waved.

She came bravely into the room, limping on her injured leg, and darted towards the basement stairs.

"Hey," Gibbs warned quickly, crouching to block her way. He picked her up without thinking and then shut the basement door securely, acutely aware of the dangerous items that were strewn about. The little girl giggled and looked at him in surprise.

"I want to see the boat," she said, her eyes sparkling.

"Amelia," Diane said, coming around the room. She paused hesitantly, unprepared for the sight of Gibbs holding the child. Diane bit her lip and held her arms out. "Amelia, your Mom doesn't want you running so much," Diane said.

Amelia let Diane take her, and then slid to the ground rather gracefully. She tapped her leg with her hand.

"Practice makes perfect, Mrs. Gibbs," Amelia said smartly.

"That's very true, Miss Amelia, but you shouldn't practice near my husband's basement," Diane said gently. "Run to Mom, okay?"

Amelia beamed and scampered off. Gibbs avoided Diane's searching look. He rubbed his forehead again and she reached out to touch his shoulder. He shook her off, this time meeting her eyes with a warning glare. She held her hands up defensively, narrowing her eyes.

"Fine, Leroy," she said in an undertone.

He held up his beeper.

"I've got to go in," he said bluntly.

"On a Saturday night?"

"I don't decide who gets murdered when," he snapped.

She crossed her arms and nodded. She looked resigned.

Diane sighed.

"I'm sorry, Leroy," she said seriously. "I'm so sorry."

He didn't answer. He looked at her for a minute longer, and walked past her, his shoulder hitting hers. Then, he had a change of heart, and stopped in the doorway.

"She wasn't going to walk again?" he asked. "Amelia?"

"Wasn't supposed to," Diane answered, turning towards him.

Gibbs turned around and touched Diane's shoulder, gently stepping up behind her. He pressed a kiss to her temple and breathed in her scented hairspray for a silent moment. He nodded and let his hand slip off of her slowly.

"Good job," he complimented sincerely. She smiled sadly, looking up at him. She mouthed an inaudible 'thank you' and followed him out. He gave a short, cordial wave to Amelia's mother, and the woman waved back, her hands full of a baby boy and an attention-demanding Amelia.

Gibbs grabbed his wallet and badge from the counter.

"Where's your gun?" Diane asked, brow furrowed.

"In my car," he said. "Glove compartment," he nodded at the kids. "You said they were comin' over. I locked it up."

"Oh," Diane said, nodding. She smiled, looking over at Amelia. Gibbs grit his teeth, uncomfortable, clipped on his beeper, and gave her an obligatory kiss on the mouth before he left.

Diane had insisted, before they were married, that kids weren't something she was interested in—but he had the suspicion lately that she had changed her mind, and that was a fight he _never_ wanted to have.

* * *

Jenny Shepard was surprised when she heard the elevator _ping_ and peered over her book to see Gibbs stalking towards the bullpen. She kept her book near her nose, only her eyes visible over the edge, and she was sure he was just as surprised when he noticed her sitting at her desk.

He paused; narrowing his eyes at her in a glare, and slowly walked over to his desk, looking her over suspiciously. She saw him check his watch briefly and knew he was asking himself what she was doing hanging around NCIS on a Saturday night. She could ask the same of him—didn't he have a wife he should be taking out, or watching sappy movies with?

"Some guy stand you up?" he asked, tossing his beeper onto his desk and sitting back.

She raised her eyebrows, mildly impressed that he'd spoken to her voluntarily. She lowered her book some, holding it in front of her chest so he could see her face. She tilted her head, glancing pointedly at the legs she had crossed up on her desk.

"You think I would go on a date dressed like this?" she asked. Gibbs looked at her faded jeans and the loose, V-necked t-shirt she wore. Her feet were encased not in fancy shoes but in older, casual pumps. Jenny clicked her tongue. "You don't give me enough credit."

He shrugged, taking his eyes off her outfit after a moment. She lifted her book back up.

"Give you some credit," he said flippantly. She peeked over the book again, taken aback that he'd spoken. She arched an eyebrow. He shrugged. "I thought you had a date," he pointed out, nonchalant.

She lowered her book quickly, pursing her lips.

"Smart-ass," she muttered approvingly. She shook her head and laid the book down, keeping her place by gently bending the end of one of the pages. She picked up the to-go box she'd been eating Chinese food out of and shifted her legs so she wasn't looking over her feet to see him.

"What're you doing here, Shepard?" he asked warily.

"Working," she answered around chopsticks, munching on some lukewarm shrimp and noodles. He looked at her balefully and she smiled through closed lips, sticking to her answer.

Gibbs made a point of looking at her casual attire, her feet on her desk, her open book, and her Chinese food snack. She smiled at his look and held her carton of food aside, lifting up a small stack of files with one hand. She laid them back down on her desk and tilted her head back to shake some of her hair out of her face.

"I've been studying some of our most famous cases," she said smoothly, "and familiarizing myself with _your_ cold cases."

He looked at her sharply. He wondered if the Hernandez case was something she had come across. He was sure it would be filed in California under Franks' name, but he couldn't be sure there was no mention of it. He had never had a probationary agent get so involved—but then, he'd only had one probie before Shepard, and that was Burley. Decker had the same relative experience that Gibbs did.

"You want a gold star?" he asked callously.

She smirked and shook her head slowly, picking her chopsticks back up and returning to her food. She didn't say anything else. In fact, she quit looking at him; she turned her attention to the pieces of meat she was picking out of her Chinese.

"It's a Saturday night," he probed. She raised her eyebrows, still not looking at him. He rolled his eyes, nettled that he was even making conversation when all he'd wanted to do was get out of his house and be alone. "Why do this now?"

She shrugged slowly, chewing thoughtfully.

"You're here, too," she pointed out bluntly. She plucked another piece of meat out of her carryout container and popped it between her lips matter-of-factly. She swallowed and tilted her head back and forth thoughtfully. "I hate my house," she said curtly.

He raised an eyebrow and snorted. He found it a very strange thing for a grown woman to say; yet he understood how she felt. More than understood; he related to that feeling. She glanced at him through her lashes and smiled.

"What about you?" she asked, picking up a bottle of water. "Isn't Saturday night _date_ _night_ in the married world?"

Gibbs shrugged uncaringly.

She unscrewed the cap, and he watched her hands move. She balanced the small white cap in her palm and pursed her lips.

"Deck thinks you hate your wife," she teased.

She took a drink of her water.

Gibbs gave her a hard, warning look.

"I don't hate my wife," he said, and he meant it. He looked away, narrowing his eyes. It bothered him in a detached way that he was giving the impression that he hated Diane.

"Maybe she hates you," Shepard said innocently.

When he snapped his head towards her in annoyance, she grinned, and raised her water bottle to him. He shook his head, grinning a little in spite of how unhealthy his marriage was at the moment.

"Nah, Diane doesn't hate me," he said smugly.

Shepard laughed. She shook her head in disbelief.

"You really don't think anyone could hate you, do you, Gibbs?" she asked, tilting her head back and puckering her lips judgmentally. She looked at him expectantly, arching an eyebrow, and wiggling her foot slightly.

He tilted his head and looked at her intently.

"You sayin' you hate me, Shepard?" he asked, deflecting the questions to his ego and putting her on the spot.

The redhead moved her feet off of her desk gracefully and sat up, pulling a file towards her. She opened it and leaned back, flicking her eyes up at him over it briefly and fluttering her eyelashes in a mocking manner.

"I haven't decided yet," she retorted, managing to sound sweet and antagonistic in the most impressive of ways.

* * *

Stan Burley clapped Decker on the back as he strolled up behind him at the NCIS truck. Flicking the brim of his hat up so he could see better, Burley swung open the other door and hung onto it casually, chewing his gum thoughtfully.

"Hey, Deck," he said. "You noticed that Shepard isn't a Probie anymore?"

Decker glanced at him, pulling a box of latex gloves towards him and rolling his eyes.

"She's been here, what, a month? Yeah, she is," he answered.

"I dunno, not the way Gibbs acts," Burley snorted. "He doesn't give her a hard time, really."

"Well, Stan, _hell_—you give her a hard enough time for me and Gibbs, and anyone else," Decker retorted with a laugh, checking to make sure everything was present in their crime scene kit. He frowned. "Where are all of the evidence bags?"

Burley shrugged.

"Dunno, let's blame Shepard."

"Don't be such an asshole," Decker said, smirking.

"C'mon, man, _someone's_ got to treat her like a Probie! I've been here a year and Gibbs doesn't know my name!"

"I'm sorry that the most popular guy in school won't even look at you, Steve," Decker mocked, hopping up in the truck to rummage around for more evidence bags from the storage compartments. Burley laughed sarcastically and leaned forward.

Decker's voice was muffled when he spoke again:

"What makes you think Gibbs is treating her different, anyway?"

"He let her drive," Burley said, outraged. Decker looked up and wiggled his eyebrows, smirking. Burley nodded, though he knew his colleague was only teasing. Stan lazily pretended to look for the gear.

"Oooh, maybe they had a _moment_," Decker simpered, rolling his eyes. "Maybe they banded together in an elaborate scheme to piss you off."

"Maybe somethin'," scoffed Burley. "Maybe they slept together," he said.

Decker muttered something negative, but he was overshadowed by another voice.

"Maybe I'm blackmailing him," Shepard said smoothly, walking up beside Burley and plucking a glove up delicately. She smiled tightly and examined the glove.

"Oh, hey, Shepard, didn't hear you coming," Burley said breezily. "You learn that from Gibbs?"

"Nah, from years of stalking prey," she answered coolly, throwing aside the glove. "Hey, Deck, throw me some of the synthetic gloves," she said.

After fumbling for a moment, Decker chucked her an unopened box of gloves.

"Why can't you use the gloves we got out?"

"I'm allergic to latex," she answered, opening the box with a nail and sliding on two gloves that didn't have the irksome substance in them. She popped the fingers of each glove so they'd fit more comfortably and turned to Burley.

"Steve, stop assuming I'm sleeping with everyone," she said curtly.

He shrugged, and grinned at her.

"Not _everyone_, Jenny, just Gibbs," he explained, patronizing her. He pretended to pout. "I'm not offending you, am I?" he asked.

Shepard rolled her eyes and looked at her wrist for a moment, giving it a distasteful look and then shrugging. She tucked her long, loose red hair behind her ears and tilted her head at Burley sarcastically.

"Why ever would it offend me that you would diminish my abilities by insinuating that I've earned Gibbs' respect through sexual favors?" she asked, speaking slowly, as if she were speaking to an idiot.

"So what's your secret, then?" Burley asked, tilting his chin up.

"If I told you," Shepard said, backing up as Decker came forward, gesturing for her to move so he could jump down. "It wouldn't be a secret now, would it?" she asked, puckering her lips.

She smiled amiably at Decker as he grabbed his own set of gloves and pulled them on.

"Besides, Steve, you should know by now that I only have eyes for my William," Shepard simpered, giving Decker a teasing smack on the ass before she quirked her eyebrow suggestively and walked off towards the taped off crime scene.

Decker laughed nervously, sobering quickly.

"She's, uh, she's just kidding," he informed Burley hastily.

Burley stared after her, and pointed at her with his index finger indignantly.

"Is she _allowed_ to slap your ass?"

* * *

Gibbs was just starting to wonder what was taking his entire team so damn long to get from the truck to the crime scene when Shepard reappeared, hands gloved, and Burley and Decker followed after her seconds later. The latter two looked like they were scheming, but Gibbs let it go, choosing instead to fix a few annoyed glares on them all before taking a long, much-needed sip of his coffee.

Diane had kept him up almost all night, like she hadn't since the early days of their marriage, and though it had been good—and he hadn't complained then—he was running on exhaustion and distraction, and he felt like Diane was up to something, and all the sex was a smokescreen.

"_Gibbs_," the voice that loudly interrupted his thoughts sounded irritated, and he blinked, narrowing his eyes at the tone.

"_What_?" he asked Shepard, gritting his teeth.

"I said your name three times," she said brashly, giving him a look. "You just sort of _gazed_ at me."

"Gazed?" he repeated scornfully.

"Yeah, gazed," she said smugly.

"I don't _gaze_," he snapped.

"Oh, it was definitely a gaze."

"Don't flatter yourself, Shepard," he muttered, taking another sip of coffee. He could have been looking at her; he wasn't sure. He was thinking of Diane, but he probably was staring at Shepard. It was the hair; it was distracting. Her hair was longer than Diane's though, and a more bloody red—Gibbs stopped.

What the _hell_ was going on in his head?

She crossed her arms and smirked, her tongue between her teeth.

"You want us to collect evidence off the body, or wait for Ducky to get here?" she asked.

Gibbs cleared his throat and looked around the wooded, expansive backyard they were set up in, thinking about it a minute. He sidestepped Shepard and whistled at Burley and Decker.

"Decker, canvas the area, see if there's anything of interest," he ordered. "Burley, you and Shepard check the immediate area around the body, just don't move it."

"On it, Boss," Decker said, grabbing a Polaroid camera and darting off to do Gibbs' bidding. Shepard turned around and headed slowly to the body, crouching down near his midsection. Gibbs looked around, intent on waving Ducky down when he drove up to the rural house with Gerald.

They were at some eerie, abandoned plantation-looking house in Arlington; two teenagers trying to do God-knows-what had come upon the body in the middle of the night, and the local LEOs had only figured out the body was a Marine this morning.

Gibbs walked towards the body, bending forward slightly near the head and narrowing his eyes. He pointed near the Marine's ear and beckoned for one of the agents to come check; Burley crouched next to him, getting a closer look.

"What's that?" Gibbs asked. "Scar?"

"Naw," Burley shook his head and reached out delicately with a gloved hand to touch the skin around the red mark. "It's, uh, yarn, I think," he decided. He glanced up. "Jenny, give me an evidence bag."

Shepard grabbed one from the open kit next to her and looked over with interest. She seemed to lose interest, and returned to her careful examination of a few scratches on the victim's arms.

"Tweezers," muttered Burley.

He waited moment, and then cleared his throat loudly and pointedly.

Shepard glared at him.

"Can you phrase that as a polite question?" she asked.

"Can you _please_ hand me the tweezers, Shepard?" Burley simpered.

She did it, but she took her time. Burley swore under his breath, and Gibbs just grabbed the tool from Jenny roughly instead of letting Burley do it. Jenny shifted to her knees and leaned forward, reaching out to touch the braided, Native American necklace around the victim's neck. She frowned, then leaned back, grabbed a camera, and shifted, angling the lens.

Gibbs pulled the red yarn off the Marine's skin and narrowed his eyes at it, holding it delicately in his hands. He put his hand on his knee and straightened a little. Shepard put the camera aside and leaned over again the edges of her long hair hanging over her shoulders.

Distracted again, Gibbs stood up, glaring at his newest agent.

"Dammit, Shepard, put your hair up," he said, annoyed. She knew better than to have it dangling all over the body; she could shed all over it.

She set her shoulders back, turning towards him, and he inadvertently had a perfect view just down her shirt.

"I don't have a rubber band," she said tightly.

Burley glanced over at her and smirked, and then looked up at Gibbs, about to make a comment about the low-cut camisole Shepard was wearing under her crisply buttoned cardigan, but Gibbs was busy looking at the same thing.

Gibbs swallowed, trying to force himself to blink—but it was a hard thing to do, faced with a glimpse of the pale pink lace bra Shepard had on that showed off an enticing curve of her breasts.

Burley whacked Gibbs in the shin with the back of his hand and Gibbs took a step back and fumbled the tweezers he was holding. He swore, dropped them, and then let the red yarn slip through his fingers; it fell into the dirt next to the dead Marine's hands.

Stan tilted his head back and laughed.

"Don't move," he said half-heartedly, choking the warning out. "Hold on, hold on, give me the bag, I'll get the yarn—you okay, Boss?" he asked gleefully, snickering.

Gibbs slapped Burley purposefully in the back of his head, but Stan just touched the injured spot and shook his head, still grinning devilishly.

"What just happened?" Shepard asked. She narrowed her eyes, staring at them suspiciously. "Did you—you just dropped that yarn in the _dirt_ and you're worried about _my_ hair contaminating evidence?" she demanded.

Gibbs took the bag from Burley and zipped it shut, snatching a sharpie out of his pocket with a murderous, guarded look in his icy blue eyes. Burley shook his head, letting out a whistle slowly.

"Technically, Jenny, you _did_ contaminate the evidence," he drawled.

She looked at him like he'd lost his mind.

"Gibbs dropped the yarn," she growled, fixing a glare on her boss. It was an empowering moment when the fearless leader messed up.

"I tripped," Gibbs said seriously.

Burley burst into real laughter.

"Over _what_?" he cackled. "You're standing still, Gibbs, _Jesus!_"

Decker trudged up to them, looking around mildly. His smile faded a little as he looked around.

"What's going on?"

"Gibbs contaminated evidence," Burley said smugly.

"Because my hair isn't in a ponytail," Jenny spoke up, rolling her eyes.

Decker raised any eyebrow skeptically, looked at Gibbs, who grunted negatively, and then looked over at Shepard. He flushed slightly and cleared his throat. Burley snickered at the look on Decker's face and William, being on the best terms with Shepard and considerably gentlemanly, figured it was up to him to tell her.

"Uh, no, Jenny, it's because—"

"We can see your tits," Burley said seriously.

"_Excuse_ me?" demanded Jenny, looking down swiftly. She heard rather than saw Gibbs hit Burley, twice as hard this time around.

"—your shirt is low cut," Decker finished through his teeth, giving Burley an annoyed look.

Jenny frowned and tugged the dip of her camisole up slightly, holding her hand over her chest to press the thin cotton closer to her. Burley's announcement that he could _see her tits_ was an overstatement; what they were getting was a fair amount of cleavage.

"Pigs," she muttered, her cheeks flushing only slightly as she reached for the camera again, still holding her shirt to her carefully. "I work with pigs."

But, it was admittedly flattering that the _pigs_ seemed to find her breasts worthy of evidence contamination.

She pushed her hair over her shoulders down her back and smirked to herself.

* * *

"Do you have anything for us, Dr. Mallard?"

Ducky looked up and found that it was Shepard and Decker who had ventured down to autopsy to inquire after their dead Marine, thus explaining the curiously polite question. He smiled and returned to the open chest cavity in front of him.

"I was expecting Jethro," he said brightly. "Though it is nice to see the two of you," he added, peering at them good-naturedly through the plastic of his mask.

Decker laughed.

"Gibbs is in the lab," he said, pausing for effect. "Explaining to Miller that our most important evidence is contaminated."

"_Most_ important?" queried Ducky.

"Yeah, probably," Decker said with a shrug. "It could give us a lot, if Miller can get all the dirt and grass and Gibbs' prints off of it." Decker snickered and Jenny crossed her arms, rolling her eyes with a small smile. She approached Ducky's autopsy table, giving the body a cursory look. She focused on Ducky instead of the body. It wasn't that she was _technically_ squeamish, it was just she preferred not to stare at the decomposing guts of the deceased.

"_Gibbs'_ prints?" Ducky asked. He chuckled. "Rare is the occasion when Agent _Gibbs_ is the culprit for marred evidence."

"Rare like _never_," Decker snorted.

"Au contraire, William," Ducky said enthusiastically. "It has happened before and, I do believe, it was because he had his eyes glued to an attractive lawyer at the scene."

"Oh, so it's a habit," Decker said smugly.

Jenny elbowed him good-naturedly and he wiggled his eyebrows at her.

"Yes, Jethro's boss was rather irate about the whole incident, though I think Gibbs was forgiven a little when he later married the woman."

Jenny's eyebrows went up.

"Gibbs has been married before?" she asked, interested.

"Oh yes," Ducky said matter-of-factly.

"He's been married twice," Decker said, without thinking. He seemed to think twice and shut his mouth, glancing between Ducky and Shepard uncomfortably for a moment. Ducky looked up, frowning a little, his brow furrowed.

"No, just the once before Diane," he said. "Unless you're counting Diane?"

Decker shrugged in a non-committal way. Jenny looked at Decker intently, curious about the misunderstanding. Decker didn't say anything else. Ducky seemed to forget about the confusion and smirked, nodding at Jenny.

"He and his first wife weren't married too terribly long," he said. "Though she did come with him from California when he was transferred here."

"We get more of Gibbs' life story from you than the man himself," Jenny remarked. Ducky looked a little guilty and shrugged, and Jenny had the feeling she had just effectively shut him up—it hadn't been her intention; she liked to feign indifference to Gibbs' mysterious persona, but she secretly wanted to know what was up with him. It seemed Ducky was the person to go to for under the table information.

Jenny tilted her head and looked at Decker.

"Did you know her?" she asked.

"Uh, nah, I didn't know," he paused and looked at Ducky.

"Stacy," Ducky supplied.

"Stacy," repeated Decker. "He was divorced before we started workin' together. Gibbs never really mentions her."

"Ugly divorce?" Jenny asked with a smirk.

"No," Ducky said quietly, looking up. "I think it was a rather painful one," he said thoughtfully. He cleared his throat and gestured to the body he was working on. "Would either of you like to hear about the case at hand?"

Decker scratched the back of his head sheepishly and Jenny schooled her features seriously, nodding her head curtly.

"Well," Ducky began. "My preliminary diagnosis is that our Marine died of a massive drug overdose," he said. "However, looking closer, I think he might have been killed first—though the drugs were going to kill him soon anyway."

Jenny stepped closer, furrowing her brow. She made a face and beckoned Decker over to look at the mess of insides on the Marine. She pointed, hesitating as she narrowed her eyes and examined the white, gooey powder that seemed to coat the victim's stomach and inner organs.

"Is this ecstasy?" she asked curiously.

Decker laughed. Ducky smiled.

"_What_?" Jenny demanded, glaring at her colleague.

"C'mon, Shepard, that's obviously cocaine," he snickered.

"It is not _obviously_ cocaine," Shepard retorted defensively. "It could be…" she trailed off, searching for another drug. "It could be _crack_."

"Nope, doesn't look like crack, either," Decker said seriously. "Ducky, come on, tell her it's cocaine."

"I cannot be or sure until Miller analyzes it," Ducky said with some amusement. "But, my dear, it does appear to be cocaine."

The redhead frowned and folded her arms.

"I apologize for not knowing what cocaine looks like," she said sarcastically.

"Seriously, Shepard?" asked Decker. "You went to college, too, you don't know what cocaine looks like?"

"What kind of college did you _go_ to?" Jenny asked him, shocked.

"A state one," he retorted. "Before you judge, remember _you're_ working for the federal government," he teased.

She shook her head, grinning. Ducky cleared his throat and held out a small evidence jar with a sample of cocaine-laced-intestine in it. He looked apologetically at the two of them.

"Transporting cocaine in the stomach," Ducky said dejectedly. "It could mean we're dealing with a drug cartel."

"Aw, shit," swore Decker, his smile fading instantly.

Jenny's brow furrowed; she looked between them.

"This is bad why?" she asked. "Other than the obvious," she gestured at the body.

Decker made a face.

"Gibbs _really_ hates drug cartels."

* * *

After another episode in which Gibbs slammed something down and stormed off to get coffee or generally disappear for a while, Jenny turned in her chair and held her arms out skeptically.

"What is his thing with drug cartels?" she asked.

"I dunno."

"Don't know."

Burley and Decker both responded with the same lack of knowledge and interest, busy working on their own assignments for the case that essentially gave them no place to start. Jenny glared at their bent heads and brought her hands together, lacing her fingers into one another.

"You don't know?" she asked scornfully.

"Nope," answered Burley.

Decker just glanced at her and shrugged.

"Aren't you the least bit curious?" Jenny went on insistently.

"Nope," Burley answered. She gave him an irritated look and he just smirked at her, mimicking Decker's shrug. "Look, Jenny, I don't get paid to figure out what makes Gibbs tick. Neither does Deck."

Jenny frowned, touching her interlocked hands to her lips. She couldn't imagine being so uninterested in the way someone's mind worked—how could they just not care, when they worked with him every day.

"You don't ever just want to understand how he thinks?" she asked. "So you can figure out how to handle him?"

"If you want to figure out how to _handle_ him, that is your business," Burley said, holding up his hands. She rolled her eyes and fell silent again, looking at Burley thoughtfully. He blinked at her mildly and waited for her to say something. She just pursed her lips, and Decker spoke up.

"It's his trigger," Decker said bluntly.

"How do you mean?" Jenny asked.

"We all have things that piss us off more than the other crimes," Decker tied to explain. "The things that really get under our skin. Gibbs hates drug cartels," Decker pointed to himself with a pen, "I get screwed up spousal abuse, and Burley hates, uh," Decker waited for Burley to pick up the slack.

"Embezzlement," Burley said darkly.

Jenny stared at him. He glared at her.

"_What_?" he demanded. "I hate it when people do that."

"I don't know, Stan, I just thought it might be something worse, like child abuse," she snapped.

He held up a hand darkly.

"Whoa," he said. "Shepard, child abuse is everyone's trigger. You don't have to specify because it's _everyone's_ number one. But, come to think of it, Gibbs really hates that, too."

Decker shrugged.

"Just tiptoe around Gibbs until we find a direction on this case. Once we throw him a bone, he'll leave us alone," Decker said. "You haven't been an agent long enough to find your trigger," he added to Jenny.

She tilted her head thoughtfully.

"I hate arms dealers," she said after a moment.

"We hardly ever deal with those," Burley said.

Jenny looked at him guardedly.

"Maybe we should," she murmured, her expression dark.

* * *

Diane Gibbs didn't exert much effort to hide her surprise when she checked her beeper and recognized her husband's number. She excused herself from the conversation she was having with a colleague and retreated into her office, picking up the phone.

She dialed his NCIS extension and waited.

"Gibbs," he answered.

"You paged me," she said suspiciously.

"Hey, Diane," he answered, greeting her cordially.

"Hi," she replied, still suspicious.

"I interrupt something?" he asked.

"No," she answered honestly. "I don't have an appointment until two."

"I'm not coming home," he said bluntly.

Her heart stopped. She paused, blinking slowly. What did he mean—?

"Diane?" he asked, when she didn't answer.

"What do you mean, you're not coming home?" she asked shakily.

"I'm working late," he said. This time, he paused. "Jesus, Diane, you didn't think—"

"You never call when you're going to be late!" she broke in defensively. She started breathing again; for a terrifying moment she'd thought he was calling, in the middle of her workday, to tell her he was leaving her. He made an annoyed noise on the other end of the line, and she heard him moving things around.

"I thought you wanted me to," he snapped.

"Since when do you care what I want, Leroy?" she groused, bristling.

"Gibbs, Miller might have some information on the cocaine," the woman's voice in the background was faraway and muffled, but Diane heard it and knew their conversation was about over. She grit her teeth, trying to find something she could dig her claws into her keep him on the phone.

"Don't expect me home," he said coldly.

"Leroy," she said tiredly, a warning in her voice. "I didn't mean to jump down your throat."

"Since _when_?" he retorted immaturely.

She rolled her eyes, anger flaring again.

"Go to hell," she snapped, hanging up the phone quickly.

She leaned forward on her desk, covering her face with her hands with a sigh. The cold metal of her wedding band touched her brow in an almost sinister way. What this conversation had told her was that, if it ever came to leaving, she _had_ to be the one to take that step—to leave him before he left her, because she had realized just moments ago that if it ended before she decided, if it ended out of her control, it would crush her.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Jenny," Miller said frankly, rolling away from her microscope in her wheeled desk chair. "I can't get anything off of the yarn, and I've isolated Gibbs' fingerprints and cleaned it up."

Jenny sighed, rubbing her temples.

"Ina few years, maybe, we might be able to detect sweat, or maybe even miniscule DNA but now…I can't. It's a dead end."

Jenny could have stamped her food in frustration. Gibbs had sent her down here because she was the one who got along with Miller the best, and she dreaded returning to the bullpen with nothing. The redhead threw her hands out and stood in front of her friend dejectedly. She placed a hand on her hip and Miller shrugged apologetically.

"So, this is Gibbs' fault," Jenny lashed out. "_He_ contaminated it."

"He screwed with it, yes, but I don't think I'd have gotten anything otherwise," Margaret said. "I at least knew what to look for then."

Jenny muttered under her breath.

"For all we know it could have just fallen off a scarf or some gloves."

"I'm sure it did," Jenny snapped. "I just thought if we could find _something_…"

"What did you expect? Magical killer fairy dust?" Miller rolled her eyes. She scooted over to some other samples she had ready for her analysis and tucked some escaping strands of hair behind her ears. "You're just like he is, Jenny, you always expect science to just answer you because you demand it."

Jenny rolled her eyes.

"Well, _he_ is going to kick my ass when I don't have anything for him."

"You do have something," Miller reminded her. "The cocaine isn't Colombian and it isn't pure. It's laced with marijuana, so it's probably not connected to some big-time cartel. It's probably some white trash trying to make a quick trailer park buck."

"It won't be enough."

"It'll have to be," Miller said. "I'm busy, Jenny, just suck it up and tell Gibbs he's out of luck."

Jenny sighed. She turned on her heel to take the bad news back to Gibbs and then stopped, smirking a little. She backtracked and folded her arms, staring at Miller until the technician looked up in question, raising an eyebrow to inquire silently as to what the female agent wanted.

"Speaking of screwing," she said pointedly.

"We weren't," Miller said suspiciously.

"You said the word screwed," Jenny pointed out. "This is my clever segue," the redhead arched her eyebrow. "How can you possibly be sleeping with Stan Burley?"

Miller's eyes snapped to the doorway and she gave Jenny a sharp look.

"Don't," she warned. "Jenny, be careful. Gibbs doesn't know about that."

Jenny scoffed.

"Bullshit, Gibbs knows everything. Gibbs is just ignoring _that_," she said smartly. She smiled at her friend and waited. "Seriously, Margaret, _Burley_?"

Miller turned, nonchalant, back to her tests and analysis, a small smile on her mouth.

"Burley is incredibly good-looking," she remarked.

"Yeah," agreed Jenny. Burley was good-looking; he was tall, dashing, the typical suave, All-American golden boy type. He wasn't Jenny's type per se, but she could acknowledge that he was handsome. "So? His personality sucks."

"It doesn't," Miller said simply.

"It does."

"It's none of your business."

"Come on, Margaret, you can't stand Gibbs because you think he's a pushy chauvinistic asshole," Jenny reminded the brunette. She looked at Miller in disbelief. Miller looked back defiantly, pretending not to get Jenny's drift. Jenny frowned and put a hand on her hip. "Burley is the same way."

"He's not, really," Miller said sincerely. She looked at Jenny and shrugged. "Stan's insecure. He sees you as competition. He spends all his time trying to impress Gibbs, and then you walk in and seem to get in Gibbs' good graces in all of two weeks. He's jealous."

Jenny looked skeptically, but she filed Margaret's words away as food for thought.

"Besides," Miller said honestly. "You can't control who you fall for."

Jenny raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips suggestively.

"Are you in _love_ with Stan, Margaret?" she teased amiably.

Margaret shook her head calmly and went back to her microscope.

"No, I don't believe in love," she said pessimistically. "I believe in really good brain chemicals," she said. She smirked slightly. "And really, _really_ great sex."

Jenny stared at her in amusement.

Margaret snapped her fingers and pointed Jenny towards the door without looking up from her analysis. Jenny took the hint and disappeared from the lab to let Miller work, taking her time to the elevator. The more time she put between herself and her telling Gibbs they had nothing to go on, the better.

* * *

Gibbs stood in front of Morrow's desk with nothing to report, feeling some of the frustration that his team must have felt when they stood in front of him. The director shook his head but sighed, resigned.

"Just keep looking," Morrow said. "It's all you can do," he added. "But in the mean time, focus on other cases as well. We've got plenty that are unsolved."

Gibbs nodded curtly. He turned to go, but Morrow called him back.

"Gibbs," the director said, as the former Marine was about to open the office door. Gibbs stopped and backtracked, standing in front of the Director's desk again expectantly.

"Sir?" he asked.

"Shepard's first probationary review is due at the beginning of May," Morrow said. He glanced briefly at a calendar on his desk. "That's about two weeks," he said. He looked at Gibbs patiently. Gibbs rolled his eyes and scowled. He hated those stupid reports; he'd hated every single one he'd had to do for Burley, too. Morrow smirked at the look on Gibbs' face. "It's got to be done, Jethro."

"She's doin' fine," Gibbs said. "That enough?"

Morrow laughed.

"Unfortunately, no," he said. "But it's nice to hear she's playing nice with your team. I told you she was an asset," he said, giving Gibbs a look. "I thought you might change your mind about working with her."

"I haven't decided yet," Gibbs retorted, though it was good-natured. He muttered a little and then nodded curtly. "I'll get her review in," he agreed grudgingly.

"Good," Morrow said, leaning back in his chair. He pulled his glasses off his face and rubbed his temples tiredly. "Oh, Gibbs—unless you've left something out of your case reports, she hasn't fired a weapon since FLET-C," he said. "Better take her to the range."

Gibbs nodded, leaving the office for good this time. An afternoon on the shooting range might actually be good for his team to work out their frustrations with the lack of anything on this current case.

* * *

"Do you know how much ammunition costs?" Jenny muttered to no one in particular as she loaded her gun in the sheltered area of the range federal agents used to practice. She made a face as she pinched her finger and scoffed. "NCIS _really_ can't get funding to provide practice ammo?"

"NCIS is the redheaded stepchild of federal agencies," Burley answered with a snort. He chucked an empty box of ammo into a trash bin and slapped a cap onto his head, glancing outside. "It's too damn sunny to shoot," he complained.

"It might be sunny on a day we need to shoot a dirtbag," Jenny retorted. She frowned, still annoyed by the ammunition predicament. "Can't someone _fuck_ someone and get us some ammo?" she asked seriously.

Burley laughed.

"I dunno, Shep, none of us have ever tried. Congress is full of old white men who'd probably jump at some young ass, though—so, you volunteering to help us out?" he asked brightly.

"Not even Congress could afford me," Jenny said dramatically.

"What does that mean, you're free?" Burley asked wickedly. She laughed. She'd taken a lighter approach to Stan Burley since her conversation with Miller, and she found it made things a lot more enjoyable.

"Don't call me 'Shep'," she said, making a face, as if she'd just realized it was the nickname he'd chosen today. "Makes me sound like a dog."

"You are the only bitch on this team," Burley drawled. She tilted her head back and rolled her eyes, fine with the tease. He wasn't being serious or aggressive, so she enjoyed the joking around.

"You need to get a dictionary, Steve," she said sweetly, giving him a mock seductive look. "Bitches are animals in heat," she hissed suggestively.

He touched his gun to his hat and howled at her playfully, heading off into the field to take his place on the range. Jenny shook her head, a grin spreading over her face. It was shaping up to be a better day than they'd had since they found the Red Yarn Body, as she and Decker were starting to call it. It was Gibbs' idea to put them all on the range to work out their frustration, though Jenny was sure it had something to do with his desire to see her shoot.

There hadn't been an opportunity yet, as their cases hadn't come to shots so far. She was nervous, but she wouldn't show it. She had excelled in many things across the board at FLET-C, but marksmanship wasn't one of them. She was adequate, but being adequate meant something entirely different when your boss was a retired Marine Corps _sniper_.

"Get out there, Shepard, we don't have all day," Gibbs ordered gruffly, walking past her without even greeting her. She rolled her eyes at his back and rolled back the sleeve of her light blouse, following him out into the field quickly.

Gibbs pointed her to the area that was hers and she took up position, getting a feel for the glare of the sunlight.

It wasn't too hot, thank God, so there was no chance of her hands slipping, sweaty, on her gun.

* * *

Decker took a break from his target practice, sweeping off his hat and wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. He trekked over to Gibbs, grabbing a bottle of water. Gibbs had a scowl etched on his face; he was staring at Shepard. Decker took a drink of water and kept his back to the redhead.

"She can't shoot," Decker muttered reluctantly.

He'd noticed it, too. Burley had pointed it out, first—Saint Shepard had a flaw, and though Stan was getting on better with her lately, he was still delighted to point out such a vital failing.

Gibbs grunted.

"She's not bad," he said vaguely. He winced a little as Shepard fired off another mediocre shot. "She'd hit a target."

"She might have trouble with a _moving_ target," Decker said. "And I don't know if she'd make a kill shot. She's skittish with the gun," he said.

Gibbs turned and glared at Decker. Decker took a sip of his water bottle hastily, pretending he hadn't just tried to tell Gibbs what Shepard's faults were. Decker backed away slightly, glancing over at Jenny again. She was reloading now, and her mouth was set in a frustrated line.

"Burley's going to rag on her," Decker said. "It won't help."

"Yeah," muttered Gibbs under his breath. He pointed Decker back to the range. "Distract 'im," he ordered, speaking of Burley. Gibbs walked away from the wooden rail he was leaning on and approached Shepard loudly enough that she'd hear him coming. She heard him, all right, and she straightened, putting her hand on her hip, her gun pointed outwards carelessly.

"Don't point your gun like that, it's dangerous," he said sharply.

"Things I say to men," she fired back sarcastically, correcting her position. He gave her a look for the jest and nodded his head a little cavalierly at the target she'd been struggling with for the past half hour.

"Little trouble firing straight?" he asked, unable to help mocking her just a little. Hey—she was a probie; she had to deal with it.

She pointed at him and snapped her thin fingers.

"Hmmm," she drawled slowly. "Is that something you hear from your wife a lot?" she asked brazenly. She arched an eyebrow and he narrowed his eyes at her. She realized she'd spoken rather loudly when she heard Burley laugh, and then quickly try to pretend he was having a coughing fit so he wouldn't incur the wrath of Gibbs.

"Watch your mouth," Gibbs reprimanded her sharply. He came up behind her and took her wrist in his hand, pushing her around to face the target in a commanding but non-threatening way.

"Expand your vocabulary to include words that aren't so easily twisted to fit sexual innuendo," she retorted, stiffening as he brought her other hand up to fit against the grip of her Sig Saur. She hadn't noticed how close he'd gotten until his arms were around her shoulders, showing her exactly how to grip the gun.

"We're talking guns, Shepard," he said matter-of-factly. "There's no other _vocabulary_."

She smirked and turned her head, raising an eyebrow.

"So it's all sexual?" she asked.

He returned the smirk and pulled his hand back from hers, pointing his head firmly towards the target some twenty feet away. She followed his gesture, and he moved back, telling her to hold her hands where he'd placed them. Unexpectedly, he crouched down and moved her legs apart, pressing his palm into the toe of her boots to indicate she should keep them planted. He wrapped his hand around one calf, just below the knee, and then the other, coaxing her to bend her legs slightly, and then he stood up, and he lifted her arm just slightly, his arms around her again.

Jenny blinked, suddenly acutely aware of every muscle in her body. Her hands shook, but she clenched them tightly, her knuckles going white—and they weren't shaking because she was nervous. Gibbs put his hand on her shoulder, right against her neck, and squeezed, his hand covering hers, his index finger resting lightly on hers right on the trigger of the Sig Saur.

And then, out of nowhere, it _was_ too hot outside.

"Gibbs," she began tightly, controlling her voice.

"Shut-up," he ordered mildly, nodding his head. "Focus on the target," he instructed, coaxing her head to a certain position with his calloused hand. His fingers brushed behind her ear and a shiver went down her spine.

His body felt _good_ pressed against her back like this; she could almost feel his heartbeat against her shoulders. His chest was hard; muscular, and he was warm. He smelled like something she couldn't place, but something attractive. She flexed her fingers on the gun, lifting her chin, focusing.

"Shepard," he said seriously. "See the target in your head," he said. "Lock onto it with confidence," he paused. "And don't second guess yourself," he added. He waited a few moments, looking at her—she felt him studying her profile as she eyed the bulls-eye in front of her. "Pull the trigger," he ordered.

It was then, when he lowered his voice and gave her the go-ahead, that he noticed the perfume she wore—the perfume Diane had been suspicious of. He slipped his hand away from her trigger finger to let her take the shot; damn, she smelled _good_.

She nodded once, curtly, and she fired, the loud pop echoing formidably around the range. She heard a muffled sound in return and lowered her arm slightly, widening her eyes, her lashes fluttering. Gibbs let go of her a little, his hand sliding off her shoulder, over her back. She turned away a little, covering her mouth. She bit her lip, swallowing hard.

"Bulls-eye," Gibbs said smugly.

He hit her lightly at the base of the skull; a head-slap that rewarded rather than punished.

She looked over at him, her lip caught between her teeth. She was quite suddenly thinking of the night she'd spent in a hot bath using her Boss's good looks to get herself off, because she didn't have anyone else to do the trick. It occurred to her that she was more attracted to Gibbs than she had initially thought herself to be. His hard blue eyes looked back at her and he took a slow step back.

"You're not done yet," he said gruffly, pointing sharply back to the target.

She turned on her heel, fast and determined, and aimed her weapon, firing off two quick, successive shots—and she smiled, almost breathless; bull's-eye, and bull's-eye again. He had cured her insecure shot.

Jenny lowered her sig to her side and looked at the target, smiling slowly. Her blood thundered in her ears and she wondered—if all she'd done was hit a damn red circle painted on a wooden shield, why did she feel like she'd just had her _world_ rocked?

* * *

It seemed they were never going to get anywhere on the Red Yarn case. The trail had gone cold long ago; after all, the body had been lying lonely in the woods for weeks and weeks before it was discovered. They were days away from filing it as a cold case, Gibbs was frustrated, and he was unexpectedly short-handed. It was annoying to end up short-handed when he had a three-person team, but Decker had a family emergency, and Shepard had some kind of flu.

If he was honest with himself, he was glad Shepard had been off for the past couple days.

He was having a remarkably difficult time forgetting how her body felt pressed against him, and that was on the heels of his contaminating evidence because he'd noticed how attractive she was—inconveniently—at that crime scene.

Gibbs filed the thoughts away as he shut his front door behind him, automatically sliding his shoes off near the stairs. The phone was ringing, but no one was answering it, and the television was on. He looked over to the living room; he didn't see Diane anywhere near. He hadn't been home early enough to see her in a few days, and he wondered if she was pissed at him about it. He wandered into the kitchen to rummage around for some food.

The phone stopped ringing and the answering machine picked it. He vaguely tuned in to the message Diane's sister left, but he didn't really catch any of it. He grabbed a beer from a drawer in the fridge and shut the door, walking out of the kitchen. That's when he noticed Diane was curled up on the couch. He paused and then slowly walked over to her, tilting his head.

"Diane?" he asked abruptly.

She winced and hissed at him, blinking.

"Be quiet," she snapped thickly, turning onto her back and rubbing her forehead. He set his beer down on the coffee table and then sat down where her legs were, lifting them into his lap. She fumbled for the remote and turned the TV off; it seemed she had just woken up and had been trying to convince him she was still asleep.

She sighed heavily.

"Was that Amanda?" she asked.

"Yeah," he answered distantly. "She left a message."

Diane muttered under her breath.

"Rusty's sick," she said, to no one in particular. "My mother's a mess. I don't want to deal with it. I have a migraine."

Gibbs sat back and rested his hand on her knee. She pulled away from him, sitting up, and sitting towards the other end of the couch. She scraped her hand through her hair, hiding a pale face with her arm.

"Just don't touch me right now," she said. "Please."

He held his hands up, looking away. He sat forward and started to get up, ready to abandon her if she didn't want him around.

"Leroy," she said hoarsely. "I feel like I'm suffocating."

He didn't say anything. He stood up and walked around the back of the couch, placing his hands on her shoulders. She shook him off again, more insistently.

"I said _don't_," she barked, turning her head to him rapidly. Her eyes were bloodshot. She winced, the loudness of her reprimand digging into her brain, making her migraine worse. He pulled away sharply, shrugging. She cradled her head in her hand again. "Why aren't you hurting as much as I am?" she demanded quietly.

He didn't quite understand the question. He was always hurting. The pain of losing Shannon and Kelly hurt constantly; it never dulled. It bothered him to see Diane cry. He didn't know how he was supposed to answer—was he supposed to try and one-up her? He didn't even know what she was talking about, really. Was she upset over her brother, something at work, their marriage? He never knew with Diane. She bottled things up, and then everything came out at once, jumbled, and out of order.

"What do you want me to say, Diane?" he asked curtly.

"Why don't you say something that doesn't make you sound like a bastard?" she offered icily. She bit her lip and tilted her head back, her eyes downcast. "Why don't you try as hard as I do to make this work?" she demanded. She pushed her hair back, holding her neck with both hands, her lower lip trembling. Her eyes were wet. "I love you," she said, her voice cracking.

He swept down and pressed his lips to the crown of her hair, hesitantly touching her hand. His fingers curled under hers, but her words hung in the air like a threat, unanswered, heavy, and charged with something that was part accusation, part heartbreak. He heard her mutter a curse under her breath and he reached over and brushed her neck with his fingers. He bent his head down to her and kissed her; she kissed back weakly, then fiercely, and then hung her head.

Her mouth tasted like salt.

"I'm so unhappy," she choked out, her shoulders shaking with a sob.

And he held her head to his shoulder for a while, and then, he really did feel guilty—and the guilt was infuriating; he didn't feel guilty because of a few stray feelings of lust for Shepard, he felt guilty because Diane was annoying him—_frustrating_ him. He felt guilty, not because he was hurting Diane, but because Diane wasn't a distraction from the ache of Shannon and Kelly anymore—Diane was just more aching.

* * *

Jenny was dragged out of a fairly decent, Benadryl-induced sleep by the shrill ringing of her telephone. She reached over to her nightstand, turned on the lamp there, and checked her beeper; she'd missed two pages from Gibbs. Confused, she reached for the cordless phone next to her bed and picked it up, rolling over on her back.

"Hello?" she growled unpleasantly, checking the time. It was three in the morning. She groaned and threw a hand over her forehead, still congested and recovering from the nasty bug she'd had for the past three days. "What do you want, Gibbs?"

"I need a partner for the night," he answered in his blunt, deep voice.

She made a face and rolled over, half-burying her face in pillows.

"Don't you have a wife?" she asked, without really thinking it through. She shrugged, and decided not to care.

"Can't call her for backup," he answered. He fell silent, and laughed. "You didn't think I meant—"

"Gibbs," she cut him off. "I'm sick."

"I'm shorthanded," he fired back.

"It isn't just the sniffles and I am not faking it," she went on seriously. Her head was killing her, and it was coming up on the weekend. Why the _hell_ was he calling her?

"Nah, Shepard reckon you're not the type to fake anything," he responded smugly.

Jenny fell silent for a moment, opening her eyes. She pulled the phone away from her ear, blinked at it suspiciously, and then sat up slightly. She giggled in disbelief.

"It makes jokes," she mocked him, waking up a little. She pushed her hair back distastefully and shivered. It was unusually cold in her house. She whined pitifully into the phone. "Call Burley, Gibbs," she said.

"He's picked up yours and Decker's slack all week," Gibbs said. "I want you on this one, Jenny," he added.

She sensed that he meant it. Gibbs was a hard ass, and he didn't give much thought to the convenience of others, but she had the feeling that he wouldn't be calling her if he didn't need some kind of expertise she possessed. He wouldn't want to work with a sick agent who was a little off her game if he didn't have to. Still, she made a show of swearing at him reluctantly as she swung her legs out of bed and yawned.

"Okay, okay," she muttered. "I'll be there in twenty," she muttered, looking at her clock again.

"Nope," he said. "I'm parked on your street."

Jenny glared dismally at the phone.

"How the hell do you know where I live, Gibbs?"

"Checked your file."

"So you were hanging out at work at midnight again?" she snapped aggressively. She swore again and stood up, her back popping uncomfortably as she stretched. "Does this have to do with the Red Yarn Body?"

He grunted negatively.

"Different case."

"I'll be out in a minute," she muttered. "But I'm not getting dressed," she added petulantly.

"Don't have time to," he agreed. "Just make sure you're not naked," he added seriously, and she heard the dial tone as he hung up. She threw her phone onto the bedside table and walked into the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face, tucked her un-brushed hair messily behind her ears, and then pulled on a pair of gym shorts over her panties.

She left the t-shirt she'd been sleeping in on and grabbed a pair of socks and her crime scene boots to put on in the car. Turning off her lights, she just gathered everything clumsily in her hands and traipsed out the door. She blinked as her porch light came on, and glared at her Boss, standing wide awake with his arms crossed in her driveway.

He smirked at her and opened the passenger door, leaving it open for her to slide in while he got in the driver's seat and revved the engine. She put her leg up on the dashboard and started putting her boots on.

"No crime scene," he said, smirking at her. "You look ridiculous," he added, indicating her casual attire and the chunky, bulky crime scene boots she had on. She lashed out and punched him in the arm.

"Then where are we going?" she demanded acidly.

"Navy Yard," he answered. "Complaining victim," he explained. He was glad he'd gotten the call; it gave him something to do. He hadn't been at NCIS as Shepard had assumed; he'd been fighting with Diane in a passive-aggressive, drawn-out way, and the call—morbid as it seemed—had been perfect timing.

He just knew where all of his agents lived.

She leaned back and yawned, her lashes fluttering over her green eyes. He looked away and cleared his throat. She looked a little pale, but she didn't look sick. She had bed hair, knotted, messy bed hair, and her leg was still stretched out on the dashboard, toned, and—

"What's the crime?" she asked dully.

He kept his eyes on the road and was glad again for a work-related question; a distraction. He needed a lot of distractions tonight, it seemed.

"Rape."

* * *

Jenny stood outside the interview room tiredly, one hand on her hip. She was uncomfortable with the situation. Gibbs had chosen her because she was female, because he seemed to be assuming she had some sort of touch or method or power that would help this brutalized woman. But Jenny just felt awkward at the thought of talking to the victim; she felt reluctant, scared even—not because she was repulsed, but because she thought she might do more harm than good.

"Gibbs," she sighed, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She gave him an annoyed look.

He looked at her intently.

"It's a woman, Shepard, not a rabid animal," he said.

She lifted expressive eyebrows at him.

"And if that's the case, why can't you talk to her?" she asked.

He gave her a look. The metro cops who had brought her in had not been able to get much out of her, other than that she'd grabbed the dog tags off the neck of the man who'd raped her. She interpreted his glance correctly and reached up to rub her forehead, throwing her hand out nervously.

"Gibbs," she said again. "Look, just because I'm a woman, it doesn't mean I'm good at, at _feelings,"_ she said seriously. She snorted, smirking a little. "I'm probably about as good as you are with the emotional bullshit, Jethro," she said.

He looked at her without saying anything and she bit her lip, widening her eyes a little. She wasn't sure it was appropriate of her to call him by his first name, but it slipped it—was that even what he went by? Yes, she'd heard the Director call him Jethro, and Ducky—even Decker a few times.

He nodded briskly, understanding exactly what she was saying. He reached over and touched the door handle, his eyes still on hers.

"She's been raped, Jenny," he said quietly. "Doesn't matter which one of us is better at emotional crap, it matters that you're a woman and you're not a threat," he told her seriously.

She stopped chewing on the inside of her cheek and narrowed her eyes at him, thinking about what he was saying. It made perfect sense. This victim would shy away from the presence of a man, no matter how much she knew that he wouldn't hurt her. Jenny reached up and pushed her messy hair back, blowing air through her lips. She set her shoulders back and nodded.

"You owe me a cup of coffee," she said under her breath. "And a night of good sleep," she added. She sighed tiredly. "I'd rather be in bed."

He smirked and raised an eyebrow at her. She bit the inside of her lip and winced.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, and she looked at him with the slightest amusement, unsure if he was being suggestive and joking with her again. She shook her head and laughed a little, blushing, and reaching out to touch his hand. She pushed him away and opened the door herself.

It was getting to be a habit, the two of them ending up at NCIS on nights they should be at their homes, both driven to try and escape from demons they couldn't really get away from.

Gibbs watched for a moment as Jenny approached the victim and sat down passively, reaching out to introduce herself with a soft voice. He pulled the door to the interview room shut and then leaned against the wall outside of it.

He thought about sleeping with Jenny, and he, dangerously, neglected to think about Diane at all.

* * *

References: NCIS Season 1 Episode "_High Seas_" (Stan Burley notes that Gibbs contaminated evidence once), NCIS Season 1 Episode "_The Immortals_" (Kate Todd's quote: "Pigs. I work with Pigs!"), NCIS Season 3 Episode "_Kill Ari, Part 2_" (Gibbs calls Jenny for back-up; "Jethro, don't you know any other women?"; "I'd rather be in bed"), NCIS Season 3 Episode "_Probie_" ("Get a dictionary!"), NCIS Season 3 Episode "_Honor Cod_e" ("I haven't decided yet" quote).

Feedback is appreciated (Christmas season and what not xoxo)  
_-Alexandra_


	6. Rita Hayworth in Paris

_A/N: Hey, we're all still alive. 2013's lookin' like a must-see. 4 Days until Christmas morning, folks! _

_In 1996, we have cool things like walkmans and beepers rather than cell phones and ipods! (remember, I am attempting to keep the anachronisms to a minimum)_

* * *

_Chapter Five: Rita Hayworth in Paris   
_

Jennifer Shepard shook her foot slightly under her desk, silently enjoying the music that was drifting from the headphones of her bright yellow Walkman. It was a mellow, laid back day at the Navy Yard, and the team was busy perusing open case files. Open on her desk was the file and testimony of the rape victim Jenny had interviewed a couple of nights ago, as well as two interviews with possible suspects.

Subtly mouthing the words to the Michael Jackson song that was currently entertaining her, she leaned backwards and rolled her chair easily towards a shelf behind her, snatching a yellow highlighter from a cup. She was about to go diligently back to work when she noticed she was being stared at.

She froze.

The entire team—including Gibbs—was staring her at gleefully.

_Gibbs_ looked _amused_.

She glared around at them suspiciously and reached up, sweeping the headphones back off her head and out of her ears, letting them hang around her neck like a half-necklace.

"_What_?" she asked sharply.

Not one of the obnoxiously smirking men answered her right away and she was forced to amp up the threatening nature of her glare. Burley was the first to crack.

"Nothin', Shepard, put your headphones back in," he drawled. "We were enjoying the concert."

She turned to him and narrowed her eyes. She waited for Stan to explain himself. He snickered.

"You were singing out loud," he informed her.

Jenny turned red.

"No, I wasn't," she said, internally praying it wasn't true. She was _sure_ she'd only been _mouthing_ the lyrics.

"You were," Burley answered.

"I was _not_."

Jenny turned to Decker for back up, but he was grinning as much as Burley was. He gave her a sympathetic look and tried to muffle his laughter before he spoke up.

"I'm not sure a federal agency is the best place to advertise that you're a 'Smooth Criminal'," he teased, laughing at her good-naturedly. Jenny swallowed hard and closed her eyes, groaning. She shook her head, her cheeks flushing hotly again.

Stan shimmied in his chair a little and raised his voice, imitating her.

"_You've been hit by, you've been hit by, a smooth criminal," _he sang.

"I do not sound like that," she tried to defend herself.

"Yeah, you do," Gibbs volunteered. She whipped her glare to him, scowling. "Dead ringer for Michael Jackson," he deadpanned. She raised her eyebrows.

"Look at you and your pop culture reference," she cooed, patronizing.

"She's got a point, Boss," Burley said, in awe.

Gibbs ignored them.

"You want to put the toy up, Shepard?" he asked, though it clearly wasn't a suggestion.

She removed her headphones from her neck and clicked the Walkman off, resigned to pushing it into her desk drawer. Burley made a devastated noise of protest as she started to close the drawer, looking distraught.

"Aw, c'mon, Gibbs!" he whined. "Let her entertain us a little more," he wiggled his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes. "How's your rendition of _Billie Jean_, Jenny?" he asked slyly.

"Naw, Jenny, do _Beat It_," Decker teased, eyes dancing.

"Here's an idea," Jenny said brightly. "Why don't you _beat it_?" she suggested primly slamming her drawer shut. She fluttered her eyelashes pointedly and turned her eyes on Stan. "You, too, Burley, just _beat it_," she smoothly. "It's the only way you're going to get any action."

Burley balled his hand into a fist and made a vulgar motion with his hand. Decker clapped a hand over his heart.

"Whoa, Shepard, cool it with the sexual harassment," he protested. "Gibbs, you gonna let her get away with this?"

Burley let out a bark of laughter.

"Who're you kidding, Shepard gets away with everything," he snorted.

Gibbs stood, taking a long, final sip of his coffee. He chucked it in the trash and gave her an unreadable, hard look, arching his eyebrow slightly.

"No," he corrected. "Not everything," he said cryptically. He shot a look at Burley as he picked up a file and came around his desk. Burley immediately stopped moving his hand and tucked it between his knees. Gibbs gave him a warning look. "Don't do that again."

Jenny sighed heavily.

"It's okay, Boss," she said seriously. "You don't have to shield me. I understand what he's insinuating," she admitted, as if she were burdened by the horror of the information.

Gibbs rolled his eyes and gave her another of his signature glares. She pursed her lips and clicked her tongue innocently.

"He's trying to protect your sensibilities, Jenny," Decker called across the bullpen. "Gibbs, he's an old-fashioned gentlemen, ya know." Deck explained smugly.

Jenny fluttered her eyelashes wickedly.

"Why, when I've got some gestures of my own?" she asked innocently.

She jammed her tongue into her cheek and clenched her fist next to her jaw, moving both in a simultaneous, suggestive motion. Burley whistled; Decker pretended to cross himself, and Gibbs continued to glare at her, his eyes on her lips. His gaze snapped to meet hers and she stopped, swallowing hard.

"You didn't think I was a virgin, did you?" she inquired primly.

He looked like he was going to ignore her, but he didn't quite. He just smirked mildly.

"I hoped not," he said bluntly, an undercurrent of amusement in his tone. He marched out of the bullpen with his file, hitting Decker in the back of the head with it for good measure as he stormed off in direction of the elevator.

Decker hissed and reached up to rub his neck. Burley threw his hands up, looking gleeful.

"Why'd he hit _me_?" demanded Deck.

"You're closer," Stan answered distractedly, propping his feet up on his desk. He turned to Jenny and jerked his thumb in Gibbs' direction, grinning lewdly. "Damn, Shepard, he'll be hard for the rest of the day!"

Jenny shrugged brazenly and yanked open her desk drawer, boldly getting her Walkman back out. She lifted the headphones to hear ears again and shot a pointed look at Stan and Decker.

"Teach him to make fun of me," she said coolly.

* * *

"Where have you been?" Margaret Miller demanded, walking out of the ballistics lab as Burley and Jenny walked into her lab. She shook her head, looking harassed, and motioned them over to a table, picking up a report and two files. "I paged Gibbs hours ago."

"Gibbs didn't mention it," Burley said, looking at Jenny.

"His pager isn't on him," she said.

"How do _you_ know?" asked Burley, looking at her with surprise.

"Didn't you notice it's not on his belt clip?" she asked, annoyed with his lack of observation.

"Nah, Shepard, I don't spend my time looking at Gibbs' belt," retorted Stan, turning impatiently to Miller. "What are we missing?"

"I have the results for your rape case," she said, rushed. "The semen doesn't match the dog tags the victim pulled from her rapists neck, so someone must have switched with him. And I have the finger prints from the Owens case _and_ the Carlyle case."

"You've been a busy lab rat," Burley teased. She smacked the files into his hands and nicely handed Jenny the semen results. Jenny smirked at Margaret and Margaret gave her a look, ignoring Burley.

"Get those to Gibbs," Miller said. "He's been barking at my heels about them," Burley turned to go. "Hey, find out where his beeper is, I don't want him blaming me for keeping him waiting!" she shouted after Stan.

Jenny hugged her report to her chest and wriggled her eyebrows at Miller.

"Is lab rat your new pet name?"

"Get out," Margaret said with a laugh, shooing Jenny towards the door. "Get out, or I accidentally let it slip to Stan that you and Gibbs hang out in the bullpen after hours," she threatened. "And I _won't_ clarify what you're doing."

"Jesus Christ, Mag, what a _threat_," Jenny swore. "Burley's the agency gossip."

Miller pursed her lips smugly and turned Jenny around, pushing her out the door insistently.

Jenny shook her head and lazily leaned against the wall to wait for the elevator, smiling lightly.

* * *

Gibbs slowly lifted his eyes from the corpse he was examining, lifting an eyebrow as he started at Ducky. The medical examiner was intently peeling back a section of skin, brightly humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like Michael Jackson's _Beat It_.

"Duck," Gibbs said.

"Hmm?" Ducky looked up and grinned good-naturedly. "Oh, my apologies, Jethro," he said happily. "I can't seem to get the song out of my head. It's rather catchy."

"Uh-huh," Gibbs muttered, shooting his old friend a look. Ducky grinned. He returned to his autopsy and Gibbs straightened up, prowling around the room slowly. He looked at the body lockers and the scales, his eyes roaming over Ducky's domain with bland curiosity. He was restless with the boredom that came with having no leads on open cases, and no new case to sink his teeth into.

"Something on your mind, Gibbs?" Ducky asked perceptively.

Gibbs looked over his shoulder and shook his head slowly, remaining silent. Jenny Shepard was on his mind, but he wasn't about to let Ducky in on that little fact. He was not in the mood for a look of warning or a placid, wise lecture. He wasn't doing anything wrong; he was simply entertaining thoughts about his not-so-new redhead probie.

Thoughts about her upcoming evaluation, thoughts about her skill, thoughts about her mouth, and thoughts about how goddamn attractive she was. Her candid, blunt nature was refreshing; it was so different from the loaded, vague, passive-aggressive bullshit he'd been getting at home lately.

Thinking about her was dangerous; he knew that, because when he thought about her, he wasn't always professional—he thought about sleeping with her, or he thought about what might make her say his name again—'Jethro', because he was so sick of being called _Leroy_.

He stopped himself immediately and focused on Ducky's autopsy.

The doors swished open, a perfect distraction, and Decker walked in, looking annoyed.

"Where's your beeper, Gibbs?" Decker demanded, gesturing at Gibbs belt. "MTAC's been paging you."

Gibbs looked down at his belt and reached for the pager, only to find his clip was empty. He swore, vaguely remembering he'd left it on the workbench this morning after he'd spent some time sanding the boat. He followed Decker out, giving a quick goodbye to Ducky, and stood in front of the elevator.

"Miller's tried to page you, too, we've got some case info," Decker said, stepping in the elevator ahead of Gibbs. "Morrow has the FBI on call in MTAC; they need information on Franks' bin Laden paranoia."

"Wasn't paranoia, Deck," Gibbs growled, glaring at his colleague. The elevator doors shut, and moved them up to the top floor in increments.

"Yeah, well, maybe someone's takin' notice," Decker said skeptically.

Gibbs narrowed his eyes, his mind taken off his missing pager and the redhead that wasn't his wife.

* * *

Jenny blew air out through her lips and set her phone back in its cradle, finished setting up an interview with the Marine whose dog tags had been stolen. She picked up a sticky note and was about to dial the number of the Marine whose DNA had matched the rape kit's semen when the sound of the elevator's _ping_ distracted her and she looked up.

She paused and then slowly lowered the phone from her ear, ending the call before it could start by pressing down on the button. She watched with interest as a woman with shoulder length, rich red hair walked into the bullpen, a medical ID around her neck, keys in her hand, and a designer bag over her shoulder.

Compressing her lips, Jenny pressed the phone to her shoulder and straightened up; the redhead looked around at the empty desks, her eyes falling on Gibbs' confidently. She noticed Jenny, and moved her hand, car keys jingling.

Jenny smiled and tilted her head.

"Can I help you?" she asked courteously.

"Is Agent Gibbs out in the field?" she asked matter-of-factly, brushing off Jenny's question. She wasn't rude; she was hurried. Her voice was naturally husky, like she had a scratch in her throat. It was pretty. Jenny shook her head slowly, glancing around the bullpen, and lifting her chin to look over the floor.

"He's around here somewhere," she said, leaning forward on her desk. Her hair fell over her shoulder and she gave the other redhead an apologetic look. "I'd page him for you, but—"

"I know," the woman held out her hand, flipping her keys over to reveal Gibbs' pager clutched in her palm. "He left it," she said tightly. Jenny nodded and hung up the phone, pushing her chair in. She stuck her note on the phone and moved to stand next to her desk, extending her hand.

"You must be Gibbs' wife," she said. "Diane?"

After a brief hesitation, the woman reached out with her free hand and shook Jenny's firmly, confirming her question with a nod.

"Diane," she agreed shortly. "I'm impressed. His last new guy didn't know my name," she said dryly, a sour look flashing through her eyes. Diane smiled tightly and pulled her hand back, her eyes running over Jenny as if she was sizing her up.

"Jennifer Shepard," Jenny introduced, pulling her own hand back slowly. She leaned back against her desk and crossed her feet at the ankles. Diane's eyes fell to the black leather boots that encased Jenny's legs up to just below the knee. She smirked.

"Love the shoes," she complimented.

Jenny grinned, flashing her teeth proudly.

"Steve Madden, riding boots," she said, glancing down at her favorites. She turned her heel, showing off a little. She looked back up and grinned, nodding her head at Diane's full hand. "I can make sure he gets that," she offered.

Diane didn't look like she was too fond of the idea. She glanced over at Gibbs' desk and then walked over, setting her designer bag down on the edge and taking a seat. She crossed her legs, and Jenny noticed she was wearing immaculate, white shoes that one would see in a hospital. Jenny crossed her arms. Diane pursed her lips and looked Jenny over again; this time, Jenny resented it. She felt as if she were being judged.

Diane set her keys and Gibbs' beeper down on his desk, crossed her legs, and glanced around at Gibbs' station; she looked back over at Jenny suddenly and met her eyes curiously.

"What kind of perfume do you wear, Agent Shepard?" she asked casually.

Jenny looked taken aback. She raised an eyebrow, feeling defensive immediately. She felt petulant enough to refuse to answer, but then felt it would be best to diffuse the situation by making no big deal of it.

"_Paris_," she said. "Yves St. Laurent."

She'd worn it since she was sixteen and she was never going to wear anything else. She gave Diane a look and shrugged her shoulders, seeing no harm in returning the question.

"You?"

"Chanel 19," Diane answered automatically.

"Classic," complimented Jenny.

"Occasionally some Calvin Kline," Diane said.

"Which scent?"

"_Obsession_."

"Why do you ask?" Jenny continued bluntly.

Diane smiled wryly at Jenny.

"I smell perfume on him," she said. "He told me it was probably from working with a woman."

"Ah, you're checking up on him," Jenny said frankly.

"You've caught me," Diane said sarcastically.

Jenny held her hands out.

"Well, I hope I haven't put my Boss in the dog house," she said lightly. "If you ask me, _he_ smells like Calvin," she added simply, shrugging. She didn't know if she was being accused of something, but she bristled anyway. Diane looked at her coolly, and then Jenny was saved by the _ping_.

With Decker in front of him, Gibbs marched into the bullpen, all business until he spotted his wife in his chair—he stopped in his tracks. Decker raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips and quietly began gathering his gear.

"We've got a body, Shepard," Decker said. "Where's Stan?"

"I'll page him," Jenny said, reaching behind her to pick up her phone.

Gibbs approached his desk, and his wife stood up to meet him, sweeping her keys and his pager off his desk.

"You left it in your toolbox," Diane said.

"Why were you in the basement?"

"I was following the irritating, repetitive beeping sound," she responded in a brittle voice.

Jenny hung up, expecting Stan any moment, and turning to gather her own things. She covertly watched Gibbs interact with Diane. His wife wasn't much shorter than him; she barely titled her head up when she looked him in the eye. They spoke in low voices; Gibbs took his beeper stiffly from her. His body language said he was uncomfortable.

Burley walked into the bullpen to grab his gear, noticed Diane was present, and shut his mouth, sobering up. Jenny had never seen the team silence themselves so quickly; she wondered if they knew something about Gibbs' wife that she didn't.

Gibbs said something in a low voice; Diane snapped back at him and he fell silent, glaring. He jerked his head and she stepped past him; he placed his hand on her lower back and they walked towards the elevator. Jenny started to follow. As she was exiting the bullpen, Decker thrust out an arm to stop her.

She glared at him in protest.

"We've got to go," she said.

"You don't want to get in the elevator with them," he said in a low voice.

Burley grunted an agreement. Jenny rolled her eyes and gestured.

"That's ridiculous, we're all going to the parking garage—"

"Shepard, _don't_," Decker said insistently. He didn't remove his hand from blocking her path, and she looked at him narrowly. "He'll be pissed now as it is. You don't need to add to the tension."

She started to push past him and then stopped, anger flaring in her eyes. She suddenly understood that Decker thought there was some moral reason she shouldn't be in the elevator with Gibbs and his wife—Decker _really_ thought she was sleeping with Gibbs.

"Will," she hissed, lowering her voice so even Stan couldn't hear. "If you think I'm sleeping with Gibbs, you've got another thing comin'," she said aggressively.

His eyebrows went up. He looked genuinely shocked. She grabbed his hand and pushed it towards his chest, missing the elevator as it closed on Gibbs and his wife.

"I would have expected that annoying assumption from Burley," she snapped at Decker. "Just because he _respects_ me?" She scoffed, eyes narrow.

Decker looked irritated.

"Ah, hell, Shepard, you can't blame me," he defended curtly. He pulled his hand to himself and stood next to her, lowering his voice again. "Gibbs _flirts_ with you," he said bluntly, walking towards the elevator.

Jenny whirled around to look at him, glaring. Burley looked out of the loop and followed Decker hesitantly, glancing at Shepard covertly. Jenny frowned and pushed her hair back, hitching her backpack higher on her shoulder.

She bit the inside of her lip until she tasted blood, her muscles tensing up uncertainly.

Workplace banter was workplace banter, and harmless flirting was just that—harmless.

Harmless flirting wasn't sex.

* * *

Jenny was disgruntled and off her game at the crime scene. She distanced herself from Gibbs and from Decker, migrating towards Burley to encourage some verbal sparring that would take her mind off Decker's assumptions. She had thought it was simply a joke made once or twice that Gibbs was involved with her because of her red hair, but now she worried that it was a rumor the whole agency was buying into.

It irritated her on many levels; she considered herself a professional. She didn't want to be viewed as another simpering strumpet who slept with her boss to get on his good side; she didn't have time to waste on a meaningless, messy fling in the middle of her pursuit of the man who'd murdered her father.

Not to mention, Gibbs was married, and she didn't have any intention of adding _home wrecker_ to the list of names she'd been called.

_And on that note_, she thought to herself in annoyance, _if they're going to talk behind my back about me having an affair with Gibbs, I'd rather it be because I am having a damn affair with him!_

There was no fairness in having to bear the brunt of the rumors in whispers if she didn't at least get to experience what sleeping with Gibbs would be like; hell knows she thought about it enough when she was alone and needed something to, ah, put her to sleep.

Jenny frowned and adjusted her hat, pulling the brim down to shield her eyes a little. She popped on her gloves and fell into step beside Ducky's assistant as they approached the crime scene. He smiled warmly at her.

"Haven't seen you in a while, Gerald," she remarked.

"Finished school," he said proudly, flashing a bigger grin. "I've been certified, so I'm more useful to Ducky. In a few years, I'll move on to my own thing," he said.

She nodded, smiling back.

"Huh, so, you're not Ducky's probie anymore?" she asked slyly.

"Oh, he shall always be my probie, Jennifer," Ducky said pleasantly, bustling by them towards the body. He smiled indulgently at his young assistant and reached for his bag, arching an eyebrow. "You never really stop being someone's probie."

Jenny frowned and crouched down next to Ducky, her eyes running over the body in front of her.

"That's encouraging," she muttered balefully, unable to imagine deferring to Gibbs for the rest of her federal career. She wasn't sure she wanted to forever feel inferior to Gibbs—no, it wasn't that she felt inferior to him now, it was that she respected his authority; she knew he was the expert, and she didn't often feel the need or the right to challenge him.

Ducky chuckled, and pulled out a liver probe. Jenny made a face and turned away, crouching down and examining the body more closely for evidence. Burley walked up next to her and handed her a camera; he began to set up evidence markings around the area and she stood, following him and taking photos.

"Ducky, this guy's pretty dirty," Burley said. "You think he's been here a while?"

Ducky was squinting at the liver probe.

"Possibly," he said. "He's quite cold."

"His ACUs are torn," Jenny noticed, looking closer. She crouched down again and reached for the frayed, ripped collar of the camouflaged military gear. She frowned and touched the flap. "Looks like someone was dragging him by it, or shaking him, to rip it like this."

"ACUs are pretty tough," Burley agreed.

Jenny bent back the beaten up collar and her brows went up.

"Gibbs," she called, raising her voice. He turned and started to walk over, abandoning the weather-abused bag he and Decker had been going through. He stood next to the body, blocking the sun, towering over her, and she looked up at him, pointing to the shoulder that had been hidden by the collar.

There were several strings of red yarn stuck to the dead Marine's dirty ACUs.

Gibbs crouched down; his interest caught, and gestured at her hand. She removed her glove and handed it to him; he slipped her glove on and reached out to pick up a piece of the yarn.

"Whoa, Boss," Burley teased smugly, lowering his camera. "You sure you can handle the red yarn this time?"

Gibbs raised his eyes slowly, glaring at Burley. Burley grinned and snickered, shrugging as if it couldn't be helped.

"You didn't think your team could just let it go, did you, Jethro?" Ducky asked good-naturedly. Gibbs ignored the medical examiner and slowly looked back at Jenny. She arched an eyebrow brazenly, compressing her lips. She wore a light, crew-neck sweater, and she knew it was plenty modest.

"Sorry to disappoint," she said coolly.

Gibbs smirked and picked up the yarn carefully. Jenny handed him an evidence bag. Gibbs bagged the red yarn and frowned, looking at it through the plastic of the baggie with a bothered furrow of his brow. Jenny narrowed her eyes, watching him intently. He held up the bag and rested a palm on his knee, pushing himself up.

"It's a calling card," he muttered.

"Could be a coincidence," Jenny suggested.

Burley kicked the back of her shoe and she flung her hand behind her and shoved her fist into his knee in retaliation. He stumbled, his knee buckling, and swore under his breath.

Gibbs glanced at Jenny sharply.

"I don't believe in coincidences."

* * *

Once again, Gibbs went home frustrated, and he went home late. There weren't any real concrete leads yet on the second Red Yarn body. They were close to closing the rape case they had open, but it all depended on a conversation they had to hook-up with a Marine who'd just been sent to Pendleton, and the satellite arrangement could take a day or two.

Gibbs couldn't remember being so road blocked on cases since he'd worked with Franks.

The water was running when he walked in the house, but most of the lights were dim. It sounded like Diane was doing dishes, and when Diane was doing dishes, something was usually wrong. Gibbs kicked his shoes off and rubbed his forehead, loathing the thought of having a fight.

He felt stiff. His muscles were tight with aggravation and guilt—he constantly felt an underlying sense of _guilt_ lately. He had no reason to feel guilty, unless it was considered sinful to think a little too long about Shepard's vulgar gesture this morning. Gibbs swallowed hard, pushing the image from his mind, and he dragged his feet into the kitchen.

Diane looked over at him as he put keys and his badge on the counter silently. Her hair was thrown up messily on top of her head. Her face was clean of make-up and she looked tired and upset. She was scrubbing aggressively. She didn't say anything to him and he was fine with that.

After a few more moments of silence, Diane tilted her head thoughtfully and set aside the dish she'd been cleaning so intently.

"Thanks for dropping off my beeper," Gibbs said gruffly. She arched an eyebrow as if surprised.

"You didn't tell me she looked like that, Leroy," Diane answered abruptly.

He narrowed his eyes.

"Who?" he asked.

"Your new _probie_," Diane said scathingly. "Agent Shepard," she snapped.

"Looked like _what_?" he asked tensely.

She looked at him in disbelief.

"Like," she started, fumbling words. She flung her hand out as if physically grasping for a comparison. "Like Rita Hayworth, like an amazon Goddess!" she said. She bit her lip and Gibbs sensed insecurity.

"Who the _hell_ is Rita Hayworth?"

"It doesn't matter who Rita Hayworth is, it matters that you didn't tell me this woman looks like a goddamn _runway_ model."

"Jesus Christ," Gibbs swore under his breath. He threw out his own hand. "I didn't notice," he fired back sarcastically. If Diane was really suggesting he'd have gotten away with telling her that Jenny was good-looking, she was lying to him and to herself—she'd have thrown a _fit_.

"Bullshit," Diane said icily. She bit her lip again, closing her eyes briefly. She turned off the sink and grabbed a dishtowel, turning her face away. "She's a redhead, Leroy, you're going to tell me you didn't notice how hot she is?"

"She's just another damn agent, Annie," Gibbs said bluntly.

Diane paused, slowing in her movements. He hadn't called her 'Annie' in a long, long time now. Not since the early, lighter, happier days of their marriage. He took the lull in her fight to try and gain leverage in the argument. He moved closer to her.

"I don't care what Shepard looks like," he growled.

"I _care_ what she looks like," whined Diane honestly.

"Stop caring," he snapped.

"I can't," she bit back. "You think I can live with knowing how stunning that woman is and _not_ be a little jealous?"

"No reason to be jealous," he said.

"No?" she scoffed.

Gibbs shook his head. He reached out and put his hands on Diane's hips, pulling her towards him. He ran his hand up her spine, pushing her closer to him, feeling her thighs against his and her breasts against his chest. He focused on her lips and shook his head. It felt good to have her pressed against him like this; he cupped the back of her neck in his hand and tilted her head back, lowering his mouth to hers.

Diane accepted the kiss. She reached around him and slipped her hands into his back pockets, pulling his hips harder against hers. He pushed her into the counter behind her, kissing her hungrily. He used her to chase Rita Hayworth from even the darkest crevices of his mind; he used Diane's warm, inviting lips to deafen himself to her unfounded accusations.

"Leroy," Diane murmured, pressing her lips to his jaw. She reached up and her fingertips brushed his hair; she scraped her teeth against his neck, rising on her tiptoes. He slipped his hands down to the back of her thighs, just under her ass, and lifted her up onto the counter, stepping in between her legs.

She leaned back on her palms. He reached out and untied her cotton pajama pants, pulling them down her hips, legs, and letting her kick them to the floor. He unzipped his pants and pulled her hips back towards him, kissing her again.

"Take me to bed."

"No. Here."

"I _just_ cleaned this counter."

"I'll clean it again," he swore into her lips.

His fingers fought with the hem of her panties and she moaned, tilting her head back, pushing her hips against his hand. He blinked and he was looking at Shepard as she stretched in her office chair. He blinked again, startled, and he was back with Diane, and he was struggling with dizzying desire. He grabbed her hand and pulled it towards him, aching to feel her touch him. Diane opened her eyes and straightened up; she shoved his pants and briefs down his legs. He pushed her thighs apart, fighting to push inside her, his eyes falling to her swollen lips.

Gibbs reached between her legs and knocked her hand out of his way, lacing his fingers into hers and bringing it to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. She tilted her head back, her lashes fluttering—

-she gasped hard and suddenly pulled back like she'd been burned.

"Wait," she hissed.

"What?" he barked through grit teeth.

"Wait," she said again. "Wait—I switched pills," she said in a rush, her words ragged. "I switched pills; I still need a few weeks to adjust," she explained, stumbling inarticulately over her words. "You need a condom."

"Damnit, Diane!"

"Get a condom," she retorted breathlessly. "Get a condom or _don't_ get inside me," she said shortly.

He hesitated, still close enough to smell her arousal. He bowed his head, trying to take deep breaths. She clutched his hand tightly, lowering her head to his shoulder, breathing in the same frustrated manner.

"Unless you want to have a baby, Leroy," she said simply.

He looked up at her sharply, his face drained of colour. He narrowed his eyes. She gave him a weak look.

"No," he said, too vehemently. "I'll get a condom," he said curtly.

He backed away from her. She leaned back, unabashed, half-naked in their kitchen. She was in too vulnerable a position to hide how much his dismissive response hurt her.

"I didn't think so," she bit at him coolly.

She turned her head away and waited for him to come back, but her heart wasn't in it any more. In a shadowy place in her mind, a place that made her ashamed of herself, she berated herself for being too considerate to trap him while she had the chance.

* * *

Jenny took a hot mug of coffee from her kitchen to her father's study, sitting down heavily on the sofa and curling her legs under her. She stared at the glowing, half-hearted embers that flickered in a fireplace that shouldn't be used in the middle of spring, not really seeing what was in front of her.

She felt conflicted and out of sorts.

She had almost managed to go the whole month without sitting down in silence and letting herself think about her father's death. She had worked tirelessly through the anniversary of his so-called suicide. She reluctantly let herself slide into thinking about it now, because if she didn't, she'd go crazy. She was safely miserable thinking about the Colonel's death; she was not safe working herself up over the mixed signals and emotions she was dealing with at work.

Jenny cradled her mug in her hands, letting the liquid warm the ceramic and thus warm her hands, and tilted her head back, looking at the photos on the mantel. There were so many of she and her father before they had their falling out, before the accusations, before she'd found him missing half his skill on the floor behind his desk.

There was a picture of her graduating from high school, then from Emory. A picture of him hugging her at the airport after returning from a year's deployment; she was twelve. She missed him. It didn't matter that he'd all but disowned her when she dropped out of law school, and it didn't matter that she'd been foolish enough to believe the accusations against him for that short, dark period of time.

She missed her father, and sometimes, she liked to sit in the dark and stew in the hatred she bore towards the man who'd killed him, Rene Benoit, a man she'd known during her childhood, who had been Daddy's friend, and who in the end had betrayed him, set him up, stripped him of his honor, and told the world that the decorated Colonel Shepard was a traitor who'd taken his own life.

"Senora," a soft, reverent voice from the doorway made Jenny jump.

Eyes widening slightly, she looked over, her eyes falling on the caring, kind face of the Latina housekeeper who had been in her life since she was young.

"Noemi," she breathed. "You startled me," she admitted. "I thought you'd gone home."

"I was in storage," Noemi answered, smiling. She held up her hand, showing Jenny a pair of worn, yellow rubber rain boots. "I dig these out of your Georgia boxes for you."

Jenny's brow furrowed in confusion.

"April showers come in May," Noemi said, beaming. "Bad storms coming this week," she added earnestly. Jenny shifted, placing her feet on the ground and leaning forward, her elbows on her knees.

"Thank you, Noemi," she said sincerely. "You didn't have to. Those boxes are a nightmare."

"Senora, it time you unpack them," Noemi admonished gently. "You are home to stay since your _Papa_ died." Noemi's lips turned slightly in a frown. Jenny looked at her and nodded, glancing back at the fire.

"Yes," she agreed. "I'm home."

She still didn't know how she felt about being home. She had gone away to the south for college. She'd lived in an apartment in the city for most of grad school. She had been left the gorgeous brownstone she'd grown up in in her father's will, but she hadn't been at all quick about settling in.

It still felt like her father's house.

God, she missed the Colonel.

"Senora," Noemi's soft voice broke into the silence again. "You like me to put these…?" she trailed off uncertainly.

"Oh, by the door is fine," Jenny said earnestly, gesturing.

Noemi nodded.

"You need anything else, Senora Jenny?"

Jenny shook her head, taking a sip of coffee.

"Nah," she said gently. "Go home, Noemi, you're too good."

Noemi beamed and said her goodbyes. She retreated into the kitchen and Jenny heard her gathering her things and finishing up a few chores before she strolled towards the front door to leave.

Jenny heard the door shut, and sighed, briefly thinking of Noemi. She knew Noemi had been hired to help Jasper around the house, but she couldn't help but think that her father had been somehow romantically involved with Noemi. Jenny didn't mind the thought, but it was another of the many things her father had started keeping from her.

For another moment, Jenny sat in the study gloomily with her coffee, thinking of the plans she'd had for her life, and how drastically they had changed. She had spent so much time focused on herself, doubting her father's innocence—now; her life would be devoted to restoring his career integrity.

She stood up and left the study heading into the kitchen to look for some ice cream. She felt like crying, and if she was going to let herself do that, she figured she'd comfort herself with Ben&Jerry, since she really had no one else.

She leaned against the counter, eating directly from the carton, her coffee lukewarm and abandoned. She deserted thoughts of the Colonel, and turned her thoughts to Gibbs. She smirked a little through her burning eyes.

She liked to casually think about fucking her boss, but sometimes, she also liked to think about him because she felt he was as miserable and alone as she was.

* * *

"Gibbs," Morrow gave the former Marine a narrow look, waving the file he'd just been handed in an annoyed but good-natured manner. "I asked for this at the _beginning_ of May."

"Been busy," Gibbs answered with a shrug.

The Director fixed his agent with a skeptical look and flipped open the progress report for Jenny Shepard, his eyes scanning over some of the words and markings. He snorted and nodded, closing the file after a cursory glance.

"Looks to be in order," he said suspiciously. "I guess it's so late because you spent so much time raving about her talent?" he asked wryly.

Gibbs snorted.

"Somethin' like that," he drawled, shrugging.

He just hadn't been able to force himself to write up Shepard's progress report. He didn't like to sit and think about her for long periods of time; he felt like it got him into trouble.

It had been a hectic month. He was in a bad place with his team; they were overworked with not enough results and frustrated. He was in a bad place—hell, he didn't know _what_ place he was in with his marriage or Diane; he just knew it felt numb, bad, and wrong. The weather had been stormy and muggy.

He was dealing with petty bull from the team; Burley and Decker had spent the morning mocking Shepard for some frilly, designer yellow rain boots she'd strutted in wearing, and she'd retaliated by gluing Burley's chair to the floor and firing a rubber band directly into Decker's nose.

Gibbs wasn't in the mood to deal with them, and he wasn't feeling particularly charitable towards her, either—and Morrow wanted to discuss _her_.

Morrow chucked the report into his inbox of files to look over and shrugged, leaning back. He looked at Gibbs expectantly.

"Well, she's been with you about two months," he said thoughtfully. "She seems to fit in."

"She holds her own," Gibbs allowed neutrally.

Morrow nodded.

"You supervised her lead on the rape case," he said.

Gibbs looked skeptical.

"Lead," he muttered, smirking a little. "I had her on such a short leash, sir…" he said pointedly.

Morrow nodded and laughed.

"Well, she didn't choke herself with it, so that's something to be said," he placated. He gave Gibbs a sly look, grinning. "She's one of the ones that are just good, Gibbs, you watch how you treat her," he warned. "Shepard could run this agency one day."

Gibbs laughed, shaking his head. He blew Morrow off with a wave of his hand. The day a woman was in charge of NCIS was the day Mike Franks was dead in a sandy Mexican grave. Gibbs smirked, imagining the look on his craggy mentor's face.

"She's got a good political background," Morrow said.

"You sayin' she's got an agenda, Sir?" Gibbs asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I'm saying I don't think she intends to work under you her entire career," Morrow said mildly.

"Hell, she's only been here two months," Gibbs scoffed. He gave Morrow a look. "She on some kind of fast track 'cause you knew her father?"

Morrow's eyebrows went up in surprise. His mouth tensed a little, and Gibbs noticed he'd taken a step too far, insinuating that Morrow was granting favors. Morrow relaxed after a moment, though, and let it go.

"I knew her father well enough to know he'd turn over in his grave at the thought of his daughter doing anything at NCIS—at any federal agency," Morrow said coolly. He had known the Colonel; he knew that Shepard's father had abhorred the idea of his little princess doing the government's nitty gritty work. He'd wanted her firmly in the private sector.

"So, her Daddy's not around for her to piss off," Gibbs remarked sarcastically.

Morrow just shrugged. He sensed Gibbs didn't know anything about Colonel Shepard's suicide. He let it go and glanced at his watch. He stood up.

"Thanks for the report," he said. "Late as it is. I'm sure your team's itching to get out for the weekend."

Gibbs snorted.

Morrow turned and glanced at his office window. He smiled blandly.

"I figure it won't be a very pleasant Memorial Day," he said grimly. "All this rain."

His phone rang and he indicated that Gibbs was free to go, turning back to his desk. Gibbs had left his office and said goodbye to Charlene when he heard Morrow's sharp yell for him to return, and Charlene said his name, too.

"Agent Gibbs, the director—"

He turned on his heel and nodded at her, poking his head back into the office.

"Sir?"

Morrow held up a finger, suddenly all business—and dead serious. He spoke curtly into the phone and, after a moment, hung up, turning charged, hardened eyes to Gibbs. He sighed heavily.

"There's a hostage situation in Alexandria," he said darkly. "Get your team. Now."

* * *

Jenny smirked darkly to herself as she heard Burley trip over his chair again. She had gotten her ass handed to her by Gibbs for pulling such an asinine, immature stunt, but something about Burley's mocking her favorite rain boots had sent her over the edge, and she'd do it again.

She packed up her things, speaking to neither of her teammates. She was tired, and for once, she wasn't even on good terms with Decker—she was worried about her progress report; she knew Gibbs had gone to hand it in, and she wondered what her review with the director was going to sound like.

She shook her head, slinging her backpack over her shoulder and marching off to leave. Decker cut her off without a word, just as eager to get out as she was—when a loud, piercing whistle stopped them.

Burley swore loudly, turning around in irritation. Decker and Jenny looked up to the catwalk, seeking the origin of the sound. Gibbs stood by the railing with the Director, both of them looking tense.

"Don't move," Gibbs barked. "No one's going anywhere."

"Jesus Boss, what _now_?" demanded Decker. "It's a holiday weekend."

Gibbs fixed a glare on Decker and started down the stairs.

"We have a hostage situation in Alexandria," Morrow said sharply. "FBI hostage negotiation is already on the scene, and a SWAT team is en route," he explained. "The assailant is a high-ranking Marine officer just back from operations in Bosnia. He's taken his family hostage; shots have been fired. We don't have any other details."

Gibbs was in the bullpen and grabbing his things. Shocked, Jenny let her bag slide off her shoulders. He walked up to her and yanked it back up.

"Get a move on," he ordered, a much different expression on his face than usual. Morrow didn't say anything else, and Burley and Decker immediately went for the elevator, no questions asked. Gibbs pressed his palm to Jenny's shoulder and pushed her after them.

"We takin' Shepard, Boss?" Burley asked bluntly.

She turned to him aggressively, anger written all over her face.

"She's part of the team," Gibbs fired back, ushering them into the elevator.

"She's never been in a high stress situation," Decker pointed out.

Jenny remained silent. She pressed the elevator button for the garage. She was too infuriated to defend herself; she was blindsided by them ganging up on her, by their lack of faith in her. She bit her tongue to keep from lashing out stupidly.

"Need all the back-up we can get," Gibbs said in a warning tone.

Burley snorted nastily.

"Back-up," he mocked. "Gibbs, she can't shoot," he ribbed.

Jenny heard Gibbs slap him hard in the back of the head, and they finished the elevator ride in silence.

* * *

It was chaos at the scene. It was a ritzy, well-to-do suburb, and the peace of neatly kept yards and paved sidewalks was broken by flashing lights, sirens, road blocks, and the buzz of radio communication lines. It was pouring rain, it was muddy; the sky flickered with lightening.

Within seconds of jumping out of the NCIS truck with a bulletproof vest buckled tightly around her, Jenny was soaking wet. She didn't understand how the snipers would see when SWAT arrived. Gibbs flashed his badge to the FBI responder in charge and they were waved past a blockade.

"His name is Lieutenant Colonel Elijah Munic," the FBI agent was shouting over the din of the weather. "He's been in there with a gun for about an hour, we can see 'im through some curtains."

"Got anything else?" Gibbs demanded, as Jenny hurried to keep up.

"Yeah, he just got back from a hell of a time in Bosnia," the agent answered. "He's been back and forth with the support operations, and he was sent back on leave after a pretty bad run in with insurgents, lucky he wasn't massacred."

"How many people does he have in there?" Jenny spoke up, drawing attention to herself.

"Four," the agent responded.

"Four including himself?" Decker asked, walking up on the tail end of the conversation. He spluttered in the rainwater and slapped a cap on his head in hopes of keeping some out of his eyes.

"Naw, five including him," FBI responded. "He's got his wife, three kids, all under ten."

"Shots were fired?" Gibbs asked.

"Yeah, he killed the dog, threw the body into the yard."

Jenny narrowed her eyes stonily. Gibbs told the FBI agent the NCIS Director was on his way; they went about getting fitted with earpieces—earpieces that barely worked in the shitty weather. They grabbed walkie-talkies and began to familiarize themselves with the situation.

Gibbs turned to them all.

"Director wants him taken alive, orders straight from SecNav," he said firmly. "You don't take a shot, you hear me?"

Jenny's heart skipped a beat.

"Gibbs, what if he's going to kill a kid?" she asked.

He almost didn't answer her.

"Director's orders, Shepard," he said dangerously.

"Jethro," she yelled, shocked.

Decker pulled her back from Gibbs. Gibbs gave her a long, hard look—and what she read in his eyes was the blessing _you do what you have to do_.

* * *

The SWAT team had a hell of a time with the traffic and the weather; they arrived later than their response time should have been. The scrambled to set up, scrambled to be filled in—FBI negotiators, Gibbs, and the Director had barely gotten Lieutenant Colonel Munic to shout to them through the doors.

Munic could barely be heard, but the hysterical screaming of his wife was glaring.

Jenny couldn't see. It seemed as if the weather was getting worse. She was stationed near the side of the house; she could see into the living room hazily from the back porch window. Where she stood was all mud and weeds; the body of the dead family dog was feet away from her.

This was real.

This was the stuff that television drama was made of, but it couldn't be turned off.

She was scared, and she was angry.

Behind her in the brush, two members of SWAT set up, focusing scopes on the assailant inside the house. She knew two highly trained snipers flanked her and it made her feel confident. She could occasionally hear Gibbs shouting, arguing. She sometimes spoke to Decker or Burley or her FBI coordinator through her walkie-talkie.

The wife was still screaming.

* * *

Frustrated, Gibbs yanked the megaphone away from the lead FBI negotiator and marched up to the door of the house.

"Lieutenant Colonel Munic," he barked into the megaphone, damn close enough to be heard. "You've got to let us get a radio in there so we can hear the kids."

"Get the fuck away from my door!" shouted Munic, enraged.

"We gotta hear the kids, Elijah!" Gibbs fought back.

"I open this door, and you'll shoot me, Goddamnit, I know you'll shoot me!"

"No one's gonna shoot you as long as the kids are safe," Gibbs shouted. The FBI negotiator approached, holding a walkie-talkie. He said something to Gibbs, and Gibbs snapped back, protesting.

"We need him to open the door so we can take him," Gibbs barked.

"We've got to get his trust," the FBI argued back.

"We don't even know what the bastard wants!" Gibbs growled.

"Gibbs," reprimanded Morrow, a heavy raincoat protecting him from the raging weather. "Let 'em do it."

Gibbs swore.

The FBI agent took the megaphone. He started talking. Gibbs retreated, prowling around uncomfortably. They'd been out in this mess for an hour and a half already. The screaming of the wife was getting more hoarse, but now it seemed an infant was crying.

"How old is the youngest kid?" Gibbs asked tightly.

"Fourteen months," Decker answered from somewhere off to his left. Gibbs swore again.

He was irate, bothered, on edge. The very worst cases of PTSD, of war-induced instability, produced horror like this, and he was torn—torn between the need to understand and treat the hurting soldier inside the home, and the need to protect and save the terrified family he threatened.

So the baby was fourteen months old, and screaming, the oldest was nine, almost ten, and the middle child was five. Kelly walked for the first time when she was fourteen months. Kelly had lost her first tooth when she was five; she'd busted it out on his shoulder when she'd dashed to meet him at the airport, after Panama.

Kelly hadn't lived to be nine.

Gibbs swore aloud, more violently.

He'd be _damned_ if these kids didn't live.

* * *

It was talking in circles—talking in angry, then unintelligible, then tearful, circles. It wasn't a negotiation; it was some kind of puzzle.

Munic wasn't asking for anything. He was on a soapbox. He was broken; haunted by the horrors of genocide and civil war in Bosnia, plagued by a conflict his military and country had placed him in the middle of. He had seen horrors; he claimed he had to protect his family from seeing them.

SWAT, as well as NCIS, had moved closer to the house; it had been almost three hours now—three hours in this hell of muggy, suffocating rain, thunder, mud, and fear. The radios constantly crackled, whether it was the channel law enforcement spoke on, or the channel Munic spoke to Morrow, Gibbs, and the FBI leader on.

"Shepard," Gibbs' voice sparked over her earpiece and she cringed; she could barely understand him.

"Copy," she said.

"You got an eye on Munic?" he asked.

"Roger," she answered, squinting. She knelt near a children's playhouse, easily looking through the glass back window into the living room. "He's pacing."

"The kids?"

"His wife—I think his wife's holding one. I can't see one of them—He's pacing, holding the baby."

"Boss, the other kid is hunched in a corner," Burley spoke up. "I've got an angle on him."

"Son of a bitch," Decker's frustration broke through. "Let SWAT incapacitate him."

No one answered Decker. The SecNav wanted the soldier alive; he wanted this high-ranking, PTSD-wracked man taken to treatment, taken to a hospital. The military got a terrible rap for the way it treated its mentally ill soldiers; he didn't want a bloody nightmare splashed all over the papers.

It was politically sick and Jenny was angry at the SecNav, angry at Morrow, angry with Gibbs.

The walkie-talkies crackled again.

"She can't take it, she can't take it," moaned Munic.

The FBI negotiator spoke back.

"Who can't take it, Elijah?"

"My wife, bitch won't stop crying, stop yelling, Susan, stop, Goddamnit! You sound like them, you sound like them—you can't take it—SUSAN SHUT-UP!"

"I can't, Eli," the wife screamed hoarsely. "I can't," she stuttered. "You're scaring me, just put our baby down—let the kids go!"

"SHUT-UP!" roared Elijah.

"Elijah," Gibbs voice now, breaking through, level, controlling. "What can't she take?"

"She can't take the pain," Munic came back with vaguely—vaguely, but viciously.

"Let her go," Gibbs ordered. "Let her go if she can't take it."

Munic let out a roar of protest.

"SUSAN," he shouted. "YOU WANT TO GO?"

She just screamed, weakly demanding he let her kids go. Jenny squinted, eyeing the house, only able to see Munic pacing, pacing with the gun and the scared little baby.

"DO YOU WANT TO GO, SUSIE-Q?"

"YES," shrieked the wife. "YES," she pleaded hysterically. "LET US GO."

Munic stopped pacing and thrust out his arm.

"_Gibbs_!" Jenny barked into her earpiece.

Her warning was drowned out by the gunshot that split the night.

* * *

Total chaos reigned again for the next seconds. Guns were instantly in everyone's hands—Jenny's included, and she shot forward, down on one knee, glaring into the room. It was as if it was too quiet—and then—

"Shepard," Gibbs voice crackled in her ear again. He was yelling. "SHEPARD, report!"

"He shot Susan," she said in a deadened voice.

Gibbs swore.

* * *

Gibbs yanked the Director away from the FBI negotiator, abandoning his post—he chose to argue with his boss, his eyes flashing.

"He's gone, sir," Gibbs argued. "We lost him, he's gone. Give the order," he asked sharply. "Take him out before he shoots a kid."

"SecNav's _orders_, Jethro," Morrow said, conflict written in his eyes. "My hands are tied."

"He won't know what happened here!" Gibbs shouted over a clap of thunder.

Lightening lit up the scene.

"This is all recorded, Gibbs, it's all for the records! This situation is delicate—"

"Those kids' lives are delicate!" roared Gibbs. "He shot their mother, Morrow, you think he'll hesitate to shoot that baby?"

Morrow cut him off sharply with narrow eyes and a warning gesture. Gibbs pulled his hat off and threw it to the ground in anger, storming away. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, adjusting his walkie-talkie to communicate with his team.

"Copy," Burley said.

"Copy," Decker came in. "Jenny's got a better view in the house, Gibbs. Munic says his wife's dead. Jenny doesn't think she is."

"We've got medical on standby," Gibbs answered, prowling around the house. He heard the megaphones. He heard the screaming, he heard rumbling thunder. He neared Shepard's post.

Gibbs turned on his heel; he walked away from Shepard's post. The rising wails of the child started again. He grit his teeth, shutting the world out, remembering how Kelly used to cry when she was scared.

In a dark moment, he hoped to God that, if he had been that desperate, broken man hell-bent on destroying his family, someone would have shot him in the head before he'd had a chance to hurt his little girl.

He hoped to God someone got smart and put a bullet in Munic before he put a bullet in the baby.

* * *

Her bones hurt.

Jenny was tired to her very core; she was sickened, probably traumatized, and she was stiff. She hadn't lowered her gun since Munic had shot his wife. She didn't know how long this had been going on anymore, but the rain had let up. She had a better view.

Munic had situated himself in a chair. He was bent over, the crown of his head facing towards the window. She could see a balding spot on his head. The baby was in his lap still. She couldn't see the other children—no, maybe she saw one, curled by her mother on the floor.

She was angrier than she thought she could be. She wanted to shoot. She wanted someone to be able to shoot.

She heard herself mentioned on the radio. She blinked water out of her eyes, and her vision was clear. The negotiator spoke to Munic, asked if they cold take Susan to an ambulance.

Munic slowly sat up.

He leaned back; his shoulders slumped. Jenny couldn't make out his face; only his outline, sitting in the chair, facing the glass window. He held the baby close to him, close to his chest. A baby on one knee, and a gun on the other. He raised the gun and Jenny flinched.

He lowered the gun again.

Jenny spoke into her wrist, her hands tight on her gun.

"He's going to shoot the baby," she said tensely.

"He's going to shoot himself," responded the FBI negotiator. "We make him think it's over. He thinks it's over."

But Jenny felt like her lungs were being crushed—she had a bad feeling, a terrible feeling—a gut feeling. The FBI idiot was wrong; Munic was going to shoot the baby. He had just been sitting there, trying to find the gall.

"Shepard," warned Decker into her earpiece.

Thunder clapped and she flinched; lightening flashed, lighting everything up.

Munic was holding the gun again.

The baby moved.

Munic's gun moved.

Jenny knew she had to make a choice.

She could fire. She had adamant orders not to discharge her weapon, but she could fire. She could take the shot. But she'd never taken such a shot—she'd never really fired her weapon in a high-stress situation, and she wasn't a confident shot. Burley told her that. Gibbs had noticed that.

The conditions were bad. She could hit the baby. She could miss, and Munic could shoot the baby.

_Burley said she was a terrible shot_.

The world went silent around her. She narrowed her eyes. She saw with clear vision; she saw murderous despair in Munic's eyes—and she found the skill to shoot. She thought of the bull's eyes she'd fired that day at the range. She thought of Burley ridiculing her. She thought of Gibbs, coaching her grip on the gun, his body pressed hard and strong against hers—how it had made her blood rush.

She made the decision.

She pulled the trigger.

* * *

Gibbs heard glass shatter over the wind and for a split second; he didn't know what had happened. A kid started screaming in some sort of frenzy, and a few men jumped up, shouting and cursing.

"What the hell happened?" Morrow and Gibbs demanded the same thing of their agents.

Incoherent words, incoherent screaming, fumbling with radio dials, and then Decker's voice came through the speaker—he was out of breath and hoarse.

"Shepard took the shot."

"She _what_?" barked Gibbs.

"She took the fucking shot!" Decker shouted back, his voice crackling.

The line went silent.

Gibbs oriented himself, looking around from where he had been standing. He ran around the house towards Morrow's position; the Director was livid, his face pale and red with rage at the same time.

"Shepard _took_ the shot?" he cried across the yard, his eyes falling on Gibbs. "She _what_? She _shot_ him?"

Burley crackled to life over the walkie-talkie. Paramedics shoved past towards the house.

"Gibbs," Burley was shouting. "Gibbs, Shepard's—" he faded into buzzing.

Concern and adrenaline gripped Gibbs. He distanced himself from Morrow's fury. To placate the Director, Gibbs pressed his walkie-talkie to his mouth and swallowed his pride, making a split decision to protect his agent.

"I gave her the order, Morrow," he defended harshly. "I told her to take it."

* * *

Jenny heard what Gibbs said over the radio. It took her a moment to comprehend it; she was on her hands and knees, Decker's arm was around her back and he was crouched next to her. She couldn't see. She heard him make a noise of shock when he heard what Gibbs said.

She just threw up again. She gasped, trying to breathe.

"Sit back," Decker pulled her back onto her heels. He rubbed her shoulders. "Slow breaths, Jenny, tilt your head back," he soothed. He picked up the walkie-talkie again. "Gibbs, get your ass over here."

Burley was asking the same thing. Burley had his hand on the top of her head gently.

"What?" Gibbs asked. "Is Shepard hurt?" he asked.

"She's vomiting," Burley said, snatching Decker's radio. "She's in shock."

Jenny tried to protest, but she knew it was stupid. She couldn't get the sound of shattering glass out of her head—the sight of Munic's body dropping like a rock, the child falling in the other direction. She knew she hadn't hit the baby—she had hit Munic square in the forehead, but god, she hoped that baby hadn't been hurt in the fall.

She yanked herself away from her teammates and hunched over, ready to be sick again, but she just dry-heaved. She looked at her hands; they were shaking. She couldn't control it.

She hadn't expected this. She had not been prepared for the workday to end like this.

It felt like hours before Gibbs showed up, and he obscured her vision, crouching in front of her and helping her up.

"She's fine, back off," he was shaking off Burley and Decker off. He thrust her arm around his neck but she pulled away, showing the first sign of strength since she'd collapsed.

"I can walk."

"Prove it," he retorted. She pushed past him, stumbled a little, but got her stride. Gibbs ordered Burley to police her gun; he put Decker in charge of the scene on NCIS' behalf. He caught up to Shepard and rested his hand on her lower back, supporting her subtly.

Morrow was by the truck, on the phone that was hooked up inside. He covered the mouthpiece, a less infuriated look on his face.

"Is she okay?" he asked tensely.

"I'm taking her back to the Navy Yard," Gibbs answered in a clipped tone.

"She needs a paramedic," Morrow growled.

"She's _fine_," Gibbs said again.

Morrow's eyes flashed.

"I want the both of you in my office as soon as you're clean and dry," he demanded.

Gibbs just steered Jenny away, leading her towards the car they'd parked so many hours ago. He opened the passenger door and stopped her, getting her out of the tight, muddy bulletproof vest. She gasped in relief and sat heavily into the car, fumbling for her seatbelt.

He slammed her door shut.

"You didn't tell me, the shot," she said, incoherent. "I—you didn't tell me to take…the shot."

"Shut-_up_, Jenny," he growled forcefully, starting the car.

He needed her to keep her damn mouth shut about what he'd said. He was going to have a hard enough time hiding it from the Director that he'd been nowhere near Jenny when she'd fired; he couldn't have personally told her to take it, and no one had heard him on the radio.

He hit the gas and took off.

"Take a deep breath," he said to her, his eyes on the road.

Shepard started to cry.

* * *

She had gotten herself under control, for the most part, when he pulled into the Navy Yard. He took her straight to the basement level showers, gesturing for her to pick one of the male-oriented, wide-open stalls.

"Get warm, get the mud off," he said gruffly.

"I'm _not_ getting in the _shower_ in front of you," she growled.

"Keep your clothes on, Shepard, but get in the damn shower," he said forcefully. She didn't budge and he frowned. He wrapped his arm around her elbow and led her over to the stalls, turning on a cold spray.

He let it get hot and then pulled her under with him, letting the hot cascade rinse the mud down the drain. She bowed her head, the fight seeping out of her as the mud melted off, and he scowled, pissed that he was getting doused, too.

"Is the baby okay?" Jenny asked loudly.

"Yeah," Gibbs answered. "The wife's in critical condition," he added. "Probably won't make it."

"Munic's dead."

"Because you shot him."

"I had to shoot him!" she shouted, surprising him. Her head shot up. "I _had_ to _shoot him_!" she justified.

He looked shocked. He turned off the faucet.

"I know," he said coolly. He reached out and put his hands on her neck, making her look at him. Her neck was slick with hot water. "How the hell did you make that shot?" he asked suddenly.

She pulled away and stepped out of the shower.

"Get me a towel."

He disappeared to fetch her one, and Jenny sank down on the floor, tilting her head back.

Her stomach was still churning. She had taken a life, the life of a sick, mentally ill, broken soldier. She had probably irrevocably traumatized that child. She closed her eyes.

She'd made the _shot_.

Gibbs came back with two towels. They were rough and unpleasant, but she accepted them, drying her hair slowly with one and shivering into the other. The air conditioning was on full blast down here, and she was cold. He stood, looking down at her, and she leaned back to look up at him. She swallowed hard.

"I threw up," she said hoarsely. "I shot him, and I threw up."

He nodded curtly.

"It was your first kill," Gibbs said bluntly. "Doesn't matter the circumstance. The first time's never good. It gets better," he said.

She laughed, the sound surprising him.

"It wasn't losing my virginity!" she scoffed, her eyes sparkling with some weird humor.

His word choice was off.

"It gets easier," he corrected.

She shook her head, her cheeks pale. She sat there another minute. He looked at her patiently. She started to get up and he reached out to help her, calloused hand lifting her under the shoulder. He was as wet as she was, but he was dirtier; there was more mud on him.

She pushed her hair back, her hand still shaking.

"I'm going to lose my job," she hissed, eyes flickering with fear. "Goddamnit, he said not to shoot," she muttered.

"Jenny," Gibbs said curtly. "Shut-up," he said again. "Keep your mouth shut. _I_ told you to take that shot."

"Why are you covering for me?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing. The question burst out her and she backed up a little.

"I've got your back," he said vaguely.

She glared into his arresting blue eyes. It was so quiet; their raised voices echoed off the walls ominously.

"Why?" she demanded. "I'm just a probie. I disobeyed a _direct_ order. _Why_," she demanded intensely, "are you _covering_ for me?"

"Because you did the right thing," he barked aggressively.

She fell silent. Her throat felt dry. It was as if she'd passed some sort of test—she suddenly understood. Gibbs would have taken the shot if he'd been in a position to. He didn't fault her. She gasped.

He stepped closer to her, crowding her.

"It was the middle of the night," he growled. "Rainy, through dirty glass," he reminded her. "How did you make that shot, Jenny?"

She didn't answer. There was defiance written in her eyes.

"I'm a good agent," she said.

"Bullshit," he fired back. "You're a good agent, but that's not the answer," he asserted. "You found your focus—how did you make that shot?"

Silence.

He smiled sarcastically.

"I answered your question," he reminded her.

He was covering for her.

Her eyes blazed fiercely. She grit her teeth.

"I thought of you," she said, "that day at the shooting range, standing behind me," Jenny pursed her lips, her eyes asking him guiltily if he was _happy now_. "I thought of how hard and good you felt pressed against me."

The words hit him in all the right places. He could smell her perfume under the muddy, rainy, stressed smell hanging about her hair and neck. He reached out and put his thumb on her lip, touching her mouth too intimately.

He felt her take in her breath.

She waited for him to make the first move—so she could blame him—and stubbornly, he waited for her to strike, so he could blame her.

But the blame was on both of them.

* * *

The intensity, the _relief_, of the kiss, was so sharp that it was almost painful—she cried out softly against his mouth, her hands flying up to his neck, her fingertips raking weakly against his cheeks. His lips moved heatedly over hers; she tasted like salt and blood—she must have been biting her lip—her tongue met his and he groaned.

His hands didn't stay still, they moved over her—he didn't just kiss her, it wasn't a tentative, surprised kiss that quickly reminded them to have some common sense; it was urgent. He touched her neck, her shoulders, her breasts; he let his hand slide over the curve of her ass and held her frame against him. He was hard; she could feel it through his soaked, clingy clothes, and it was enough to slowly bring her crashing back to reality.

The situation was absurd, and before she deprived herself of his mouth and his tongue, she figured they must have a hell of a lot in common to both be turned on after the harrowing events of the night.

She didn't jump back; she didn't push him away. She gasped for breath, her nerves aching, begging to be stroked by his wandering hand again. His breathing was ragged in her ear and it almost felt like he was leaning against her.

She swallowed; she blinked—she stepped back, she held him at arms length slowly; she did anything to keep herself from pulling him to the floor on top of her. She wanted to sleep with him, to forget about this wretched night by focusing on him inside of her but she _couldn't_.

"Son of a bitch," she swore, reaching up to rub her forehead. She let loose a string of unflattering curse words in a jumble. Gibbs took her hand, squeezed it, and gently removed it from his shoulder.

He opened his mouth.

"Jen," he said.

Her eyes widened at the intimacy implied in the nickname. She touched her lips.

"Jethro," she replied. "You need get out," she said seriously.

"You're still in shock," he said roughly. The professional agent shone through. She nodded. She agreed with him; she was still in shock. She wasn't going to blame this indiscretion on that—she had used the shock to justify kissing him.

"I need to be alone," she said huskily.

His eyes bore into hers, but she didn't understand what she was seeing in those damn unreadable blue orbs. He nodded curtly and let her hand go, turning to leave. He didn't look back, but she sensed that's because if he had—he'd have given into the same instinct she was fighting.

Jenny swallowed down the last taste of him and stumbled to the mirrors, grabbing a towel again. She was alone; she needed to really shower. She needed to get her shit together.

Her hair was tangled. He had touched her hair, stroked her hair. She looked down at her worn clothes. He'd gotten mud on her again; he'd smeared mud on her breast and her hips.

It was brown and mucky and unassuming against her dark clothing—it was just plain _mud_, but she looked at it in the mirror and what she _saw_ was a vibrant, accusatory red—a scarlet letter burned into her skin.

* * *

References: NCIS Season 1 Episode "_Yankee White_" (Kate: You didn't think I was a virgin, did you? Ducky: I'd hoped not.), Nathaniel Hawthorne's _The Scarlett Letter_ (one of my personal favorites), Rita Hayworth, famous redheaded sex symbol back-in-the-day, Michael Jackson's hits _Beat It, Billie Jean,_ and_ Smooth Criminal,_ NCIS Season 3 Episode "_Probie_" (We discover that Gibbs once covered for Jenny in her probie days; my change to canon: happens in DC, not Paris), Balkan ethnic cleansing conflict of the late 80's/early 90's.

_Naturally, I've got Jenny in perfume that alludes to our most jibbs-y city._

_Feedback is appreciated!  
__-Alexandra_


	7. Sweet Talkin' Redneck Bitch

_A/N: I have to say-sometimes I really think the chapter titles are my favorite part of this story. _

_Hey, we get presents tomorrow! Happy Christmas Eve (and, er, Christmas Adam, as well!)_

* * *

_Chapter Six: Sweet Talkin' Redneck Bitch_

Jenny soon found out that there was an ungodly amount of paperwork involved in shooting someone. There was also an ungodly amount of maneuvering involved in filling out the paperwork that _lied_ about what had prompted her to shoot someone—but paperwork was distracting and so, paperwork was good.

The weekend of the hostage situation had been hectic, sticky, and media-scrutinized. No one on the team had enjoyed a Memorial Day off. Jenny had only been home briefly to catch a few hours of troubled sleep. She was sure it was the same for the rest of her colleagues, though she suspected Gibbs hadn't gone home at all.

She wondered, though, if he had avoided home because he didn't want to look his wife in the eye.

Jenny frowned, chewing the inside of her lower lip. She paced before the Director's secretary's desk, restless. It was hot outside, and not much cooler in the building. Central air was still getting into the swing of things since the seasons had changed.

Charlene smiled at her from behind her computer.

"He should be with you in just a minute," she said, just as Morrow's door opened and Gibbs came out, leaving the door wide open.

Jenny ignored Charlene's kind words and stopped in her tracks, turning to Gibbs with an uncertain look on her face. She folded one arm across her chest, pinning her incident report there. Gibbs walked towards her, angling his body away from Charlene. He reached out and touched Jenny's hand.

She winced; the touch was too intimate, too out of place. He squeezed firmly and then touched her elbow, giving her a confident look.

"You're in the clear," he said in a low voice, brushing on past her.

Jenny let out a bated breath. She glanced at Charlene and then quickly entered Morrow's office, closing the door gently behind her. Morrow gestured immediately for her to sit down in the chair before his desk. She did so stiffly, perching on the edge, her hands splayed over the report in her lap.

"I apologize for how long it's taken for us to get around to this," Morrow began diplomatically. "We've had a lot of political press to handle."

Jenny nodded.

Morrow leaned back in his chair. He studied her for a moment, and then nodded at the report in her lap.

"I assume that report is going to match Agent Gibbs' down to the last word," he said, his voice brittle.

"I doubt we use the same vocabulary," she answered after a brief silence. She didn't at all want the Director to think she'd allowed Gibbs to forge her report, but she also knew Morrow didn't believe Gibbs had ordered her to take out Lieutenant Colonel Munic.

Morrow snorted, nodding his head.

"You're probably right," he agreed. He leaned forward and held his hand out; Jenny placed her incident report in his palm. He took it and began to scan through it, nodding to himself.

He glanced up at Jenny.

"Agent Gibbs ordered you to take out Munic," he said rhetorically. "He told you to take a shot in unstable conditions, even though you are inexperienced and you were flanked by two highly trained SWAT snipers?"

Jenny narrowed her eyes defensively. When the Director said it like that, it was not only degrading to her skill as an agent, but it put down Gibbs' authority—and she wasn't about to take kindly to insults towards the man who was risking his career to protect hers.

"Agent Gibbs felt, as I did, that one life had to be sacrificed to save three," she answered tightly.

Morrow nodded and looked back at the file. He snapped it shut and slipped it onto his desk, folding his hands in his lap in front of him.

"There will be no disciplinary action taken against you," he said. "It was Gibbs who disobeyed my order and SecNav's; you simply followed an order given to you by a superior. Gibbs will pay the price, though I can't say it will be a steep one," Morrow paused. "It was a hell of a shot, Shepard."

She lifted one shoulder. She found that she _hated_ people complimenting her on that shot.

She almost hated that she'd made the shot, even if she had saved lives.

"I learned from the best," she remarked. "Or so they say."

Morrow smiled.

"Gibbs is one of NCIS' finest," he said grimly. "I'd like to see you give him a run for his money," he added, waving his hand a little dismissively. "Get back to work, Shepard, I know you're just as busy as the rest of the agency."

She nodded and stood, a weight lifted off of her shoulders. As soon as the Director closed this case, she could forget that she, Burley, Decker, and Gibbs had just recorded a white lie into federal archives as a fact. She could move on.

She had reached the office door when Morrow stopped her.

"Have you spoken with a psychologist?" he asked mildly.

"Pardon?" she asked, turning slightly.

"It's general procedure for probationary agents to speak with a psychologist after their first traumatic altercation."

"I don't need to see anyone," Jenny demurred calmly.

"It's a requirement," Morrow said bluntly. "I need a record that you saw someone within two weeks."

She couldn't hide the scowl that flickered over her lips and through her eyes.

"Doctor Mallard can recommend some names," Morrow said. "Or perhaps you can convince Agent Gibbs to simply _tell_ me you've done what I asked."

Jenny narrowed her eyes slightly, studying Morrow for a moment. He gave her a wry look, and she understood then that he knew more than he was letting on—he was allowing Gibbs to cover for her.

She owed them both.

* * *

"So, you're not fired," Burley said smugly, leaning back in his desk chair. He put his hands behind his head as if he were basking in the sun and smirked at Jenny as she sat back at her own desk. "Pity."

"Shut-up, Stan," Decker said good-naturedly, chucking a balled up piece of paper at Burley.

"Ah, she's knows I'm just kiddin'," Burley said, blocking the projectile easily with his elbow. "You know I'm kiddin', right, Shepard?"

"Do I?" she asked, looking over bluntly. "You've never had any love for me."

Burley clutched his heart, hunching over in mock heartache.

"Shepard, you're _killin'_ me, _really_," he flattered. He stood up, still pretending to cradle his heart. "You think I don't _love_ you?" he demanded. Decker stood up and strolled over, grinning.

She looked at him like he'd lost his mind.

"Jenny, didn't anyone tell you that when little boys pick on you, it means they like you?" Decker asked.

"You're not little boys," Jenny pointed out suspiciously.

Burley pouted.

"I'm emotionally immature, Shep," he whined. He inched closer; he darted around her chair. "I don't know how else to express myself," he added. He crouched behind her and flicked her in the side of the head.

"Stan," she laughed, "What's gotten into you?"

"It's hero-worship," Decker remarked.

"Nah, really I just feel bad for you," Burley corrected.

"He's kissing your ass," Decker retorted. "Wants you to teach him how to shoot, teach him how to charm Gibbs."

Burley scoffed.

"Hell, Shepard, I just want to cheer you up—you make a killer shot and then you spend the next five minutes puking in the mud," he said, sobering up a little. "Tough few days for ya."

She tilted her head back, raised a brow, and eyed Burley apprehensively.

"Yeah," she said with warning, "tough."

Decker leaned forward on her desk and suddenly she was trapped between the two agents; Burley lounging over the back of her chair, invading her space, and Decker staring right at her. But she didn't feel threatened. In an odd turn of events, she felt like they were treating her, sincerely, like one of the guys.

"So tell me something," Burley said seriously, his head next to her ear. "Why'd you have to stop puking when Gibbs showed up?"

Decker nodded.

"That's twice you've thrown up around us," Decker said, holding up his fingers. "Isn't it Gibbs' turn?"

Jenny put her tongue in her cheek. She grinned.

"Even vomit's afraid of Gibbs," she said, shrugging.

Burley straightened up.

"We have a proposition for you, Shepard," he said, changing topics.

Decker nodded.

Jenny straightened and looked between them.

"You mean all this sweet talk has an ulterior motive?" she asked, widening her eyes. She clicked her tongue. "Just when I'd started to think you pricks were gentlemen."

This time, Decker pretended to clutch his heart.

"Ouch, Jenny, way to deal a blow to my honor."

She cocked an eyebrow. Burley leaned against the bullpen wall behind her and casually crossed his arms.

"You've got a way with Gibbs, Shepard," he said. She opened her mouth to protest but he shook his head. "No, don't deny it—and I'm not accusing you of any funny business, either," he clarified. "It's a fact. He's soft on you."

"Ironic choice of words," Decker snorted.

Jenny lifted her eyes to the ceiling and bit the inside of her lip. Where was this going?

Burley laughed, but plunged on.

"Deck and I, we've always wanted to give Gibbs a taste of his own medicine," Burley said wickedly. "You know, get him back."

"Meaning…?"

"Prank him, Shepard, Jesus," Burley said, rolling his eyes.

"You were a good girl in school, weren't you?" Decker asked lightly.

Jenny looked at him with pursed lips and tilted her head.

"Teacher's pet," she said silkily.

Decker looked up at Burley and they grinned. Jenny frowned good-naturedly and raised her eyebrows again, turning slightly in her chair and looking back and forth.

"He just saved my ass, guys," she said semi-seriously. "It would be impolite to screw with him."

"Gibbs doesn't even know the difference between polite and impolite," Burley scoffed.

Jenny tilted her head, thinking about it. She supposed Burley was right. It could be fun to try and get Gibbs to loosen up a bit—it might take her mind off the _loosening up_ she had engaged in with him in the showers the other day. It might take his mind off of it, if he was even thinking about it.

She could never tell with Gibbs.

She smirked slowly and nodded.

"What did you have in mind?"

Burley cackled and hugged Shepard from behind. Decker just grinned, glad to have converted the new kid on the block to their side. Jenny laughed and reached up to grab Burley's hands, making sure his hug stayed around her shoulders and his hands didn't wander.

Gibbs came storming into the bullpen, shooting a glare at Jenny's desk. He did a double take and his eyes fell on Stan. He straightened, slamming his cup of coffee down roughly and narrowed his eyes at them.

"When you three are done playing grab-ass, we've got leads to chase on the Red Yarn cases," he growled.

Jenny released Burley's hands and met Gibbs' eyes, and she swore for a brief minute that jealousy was in his piercing blues.

The look was gone in a flash, and then she wasn't so sure it had been there at all.

* * *

Gibbs had been listening to his wife walk around the house for the past hour and a half. He didn't know if she was cleaning, or looking for something, or just pacing because she knew the sound of it was irritating, but he was finding it hard to focus on mindlessly sanding the boat.

He had come home in the middle of the afternoon, fed up with work. It had been four days since the hostage situation in Alexandria and he hadn't seen Diane since he left for work that Friday morning. He was surprised she hadn't come storming into the basement demanding to know why he was home so early.

He was just frustrated and annoyed with the job; they weren't getting anywhere on the Red Yarn bodies. They had discovered enough to induce them to scratch serial killer off their list of theories; it _was_ looking up to be connected to a drug ring. Gibbs hated drug cartels, no matter how big, small, influential, or pathetic.

He hated them.

They destroyed lives.

Gibbs grit his teeth and set his tools aside, leaning on the counter. He glanced at the bourbon, but decided against it. He needed to be with Diane. He usually wanted to be at work when he felt his angry about the cards life had dealt him, but he'd left work because work was infuriating him.

So, he wanted Diane. He stormed away from the counter and went upstairs, listening for the sound of her voice. He heard it in the kitchen. She was leaning against the counter, a glass of wine near her elbow, chatting on the phone.

"Jesus, Rusty, you sound just like your old self," she was saying. She laughed, a genuine laugh, and Gibbs smiled a little. It sounded like her brother was doing better.

Diane had one of her cute little golfing outfits on. The pastel skirt, white socks, nice tennis shoes, collared shirt kind. Her hair was pulled back. She looked good. He stopped in the kitchen to watch.

"God, Rusty, just because you're sick doesn't mean you can tell Mom all my secrets!" Diane shrieked. She tilted her head back to laugh and, in the quickness of the motion, noticed Gibbs.

She straightened up, startled, and covered the mouthpiece with her hand.

"Where did you—when did you come home?" she asked.

"Been here since two," he answered.

She put a hand over her heart in disbelief.

"I didn't even _notice_," she marveled, slightly suspicious. "Why're you home so—" she broke off, turning back to the phone. "What? I'm sorry, Leroy just scared the daylights out of me," she explained. She snickered. "You know how he is," she said.

Gibbs made a face and strolled into the kitchen, picking up her wine glass and tasting what she was drinking. He reached for the edge of her little skirt and flipped it up playfully; Diane laughed and swatted his hand away. She backed away from him, snatching her wineglass away.

"I don't know, Rus, he's kissing my ass because he hasn't been home in a week."

Gibbs held up some fingers. It had only been a few days. There was no need for Diane to exaggerate; he didn't want to deal with pissed big brothers no matter how sickly they were.

"Oh, you want to talk to him?" Diane asked primly, eyeing Gibbs. Her eyes sparkled. He rolled his eyes and she lowered her chin. "No, really, it's fine. He's been busy—Rusty, I'm serious, I'm _kidding,_" she paused. She listened. "Speaking of spouses, don't you have a wife _you_ need to talk to?" she asked.

Rusty said something to make Diane laugh and Gibbs waited, eyeing her impatiently. He tried to take her wineglass again and she covered the mouthpiece, holding it away form him.

"What's gotten into you?" she mouthed silently.

He shrugged, narrowing his eyes. He made a motion indicating she should wrap up her conversation, and she frowned, not as amused anymore. She remained silent until her brother was done talking, and sighed.

"It's good to hear you feeling better, Rus," she said sincerely. "I've got to go. Leroy's having a mental break down," she said. Gibbs glared at her; Diane smiled briefly and cradled her wineglass to her chest. "I love you, too," she said. "Yeah, tell the kids I said hey. Bye."

Diane pulled the phone away from her ear and ended the call, holding the cordless electronic against her shoulder. She glared at her husband and lifted an eyebrow, waiting impatiently for him to say something. Of course, he would never be the one to speak first.

"Did you forget where you lived this weekend?" she asked mildly.

"Rough case," he answered.

"I know," she said. "It was all over the news, and I was worried," she paused. "You could have called to tell me you weren't dead, Leroy."

"No news is good news," he drawled, smirking.

She rolled her eyes tensely and ignored him.

"Ducky called me," she informed Gibbs. "He called me and told me not to worry about you. God bless Ducky," she said dryly.

"Duck's a good man," Gibbs agreed. He tried to shrug off the subject of the weekend and his lack of coming home. He had dropped by the house to grab some things, but he'd done it when he knew Diane wouldn't be there. He was bothered because he didn't feel guilty about the ki—about what had happened with Shepard. He kept his features guarded.

"Is your team okay?" she asked.

"Shepard shot the bastard," Gibbs said, before he could stop himself. Diane looked concerned.

"Is she okay?"

"Says she is," Gibbs responded. He snorted. "But she's lyin'," he added confidently.

"Well, you would know," Diane muttered. He didn't know what it was supposed to mean, and he didn't ask. She sighed and leaned over, setting the cordless phone on the counter next to the sink. She took a slow drink of her wine and eyed him over the rim of the glass.

She licked her lips.

"Let's go out to dinner," he said suddenly.

She almost choked.

"_What_?"

"Dinner," he repeated. "Let's go out."

"In _public_?" she asked, tilting her head. Her brow furrowed. "At a _restaurant_?"

"Did I stutter?" Gibbs asked seriously. In the back of his mind, taking Diane out to a nice dinner made up for the fact that he kissed another woman at work. But he shoved that thought down.

She still looked perplexed and uncertain.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Where do _you_ want to go?" he retorted. "We can go see that movie after, with that guy you like," he added. In the back of his mind, adding a movie made up for the fact that he had not just kissed, but groped, another woman at work. But he shoved that thought down, too.

"That guy…" she muttered, looking thoughtful. She snapped her fingers. "Tom Cruise? _Mission: Impossible_? I didn't even know you were _listening_ to me when I said I wanted to see it."

He raised his eyebrows as if to imply that he was always listening.

"You want to go or not?" he asked.

"You must have had a near death experience in Alexandria," she said, laughing breathlessly. She took another sip of wine and then paused. A hesitant frown crossed her face. "Oh, I played golf today," she said regretfully.

"I know," Gibbs said gruffly, gesturing at her ensemble. He reached for the skirt again and she laughed and swatted him away, pleased with the attention, pleased with how he was behaving towards her. "So?"

"You know the girls and I drink after," she said.

"_So_?" he repeated.

She held up her wine glass and grinned apologetically.

"I had some more when I got home," she said. He just looked at her expectantly and she lowered her voice. "I'm a little drunk, Leroy," she admitted.

He looked at his watch and shrugged.

"It's five o'clock somewhere," he told her seriously. He beckoned to her, took her wineglass away, and set it aside. "C'mon, let's go," he coaxed.

She smiled and started forward.

"Leroy," she said, stopping. He turned back to her impatiently. "I really was worried," she said seriously, frowning a little. She stepped up to him and touched his face, slipping her arms around his neck to hug him.

He put his hands on her hips stiffly, and cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the show of affection. She had been worrying about him, and he had been worrying about Shepard. Gibbs swallowed and slid his hands around her waist. He returned the hug, but suddenly, he just felt like skulking back to the Navy Yard.

* * *

"Argh," groaned Stan Burley, covering his face with a pillow. "How do you get up so early?"

"Sleep is for the weak," answered Margaret Miller, pouncing on Burley's back. She breathed out heavily, refreshed from her early, early morning run. She straddled his lower back and began to rub his shoulders.

"You know, for someone who hates Gibbs, you have a lot in common with Gibbs," Stan mumbled into her pillows. She yanked the pillow away and smiled, bending to bite his ear playfully.

"They way your hair sticks up in the morning makes me laugh," she whispered, snickering and pressing a kiss to his temple. Stan grinned, folding his arms under his head and blinking. He relaxed, enjoying Margaret's familiar massage.

"Speaking of Gibbs," Burley mumbled.

"Why do you always want to _speak_ of Gibbs?" Margaret asked with a laugh. She grabbed Stan's hair and tilted his head back snarkily. "You sure you're not in love with him?"

"Oh, yeah, his baby blues make my knees weak," Stan, retorted, rolling his eyes. He yanked his head away from Margaret and wriggled around, shaking her off his back. He rolled over and looked at her. She sat cross-legged on the bed, arching one brown eyebrow expectantly.

"Did Gibbs hurt your feelings again, babe?" she mocked.

Burley grinned.

"Nah, he left early yesterday."

"_How_ early?"

"Two in the afternoon," Burley said smugly. Margaret whistled, appropriately impressed. She shrugged and uncrossed her legs, flopping down next to Stan on her stomach. She pushed strands of her hair behind her ears and pursed her lips.

"Probably because I came up shorthanded on fingerprints again," she said. "Jenny was pretty reluctant to tell him."

"Yeah, he's pissed at her," Burley said. "Dunno why. Well, maybe not pissed, but he's treating her like the rest of us instead of like his little pet."

"Stan, you're so competitive with her that it isn't cute anymore."

"He plays _favorites_!" Stan protested indignantly, throwing his hands out. Margaret grabbed his knuckles and kissed them sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes.

"Yes, and you want to be his favorite," she soothed. "Though I've no earthly idea _why_."

"I don't know why you hate Gibbs so much and like me," Burley retorted pettily.

"I've told you a thousand times," Margaret said, bending to kiss him languidly. "You can't help who you go for, and you can't help who rubs you the wrong way." She smirked and pressed her forehead to his. "Just be grateful I let you rub me the right way."

Burley grinned. He pulled down one of the thin straps of Margaret's exercise bra and kissed her shoulder, reaching up to undo her tied up hair and pull it down around her shoulders. She shook it out and kissed him again. Stan pulled back and raised an eyebrow at her.

"_You_ think Gibbs and Shepard are doing what we're doing?"

"Doubt it," Margaret muttered, trying to kiss him again.

"Really?" Burley asked interested. "Decker's comin' 'round to my side."

"_Stan_," warned Margaret, rolling her eyes. She pulled back and gave him a narrow look. "Will you give it a rest? You're just trying to rationalize a reason why he isn't such an ass to her."

"Yeah, _so_?" retorted Burley seriously. "You notice it, too."

"I hate to break it to you, babe, but it's just because she's a woman. Gibbs is a chauvinist, a good ol' boy. He's going to give a woman special treatment. It's irritating to you and patronizing to me. Get over it and kiss me again."

Burley kissed her again, but then he pushed her away and cocked an eyebrow.

"Decker and I have a bet," he informed her.

"Why am I not surprised?"

"He thought it was bullshit at first, but you shoulda seen them at the shooting range," Burley wiggled his brows suggestively. "Gibbs got right up on her to show her how to shoot."

"Jesus, Stan, are you going to shut up or do I have to go work without morning sex?"

"Just hold on a second!" he protested.

"I need more than a second, you selfish asshole," Margaret shot back playfully. She giggled and sighed, motioning for Stan to carry on with his theories.

"You want in on the bet?" he asked slyly. "I can let you in, but you got to give me something."

Her brow furrowed.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, has Shepard told you anything?" he prodded eagerly.

"Has she—_what_? No," Margaret said seriously. "Stan, and I don't think she would."

"You two are friends," he whined.

"Yes," Margaret agreed. "But Jenny's a very resigned woman. She wouldn't divulge her secrets to anyone, I don't think. And come to think of it, Gibbs is too much of a prude to cheat on his wife," she added. "I don't think I'll take your bet."

Burley blew her off with a scoff. He sighed and frowned, unable to think of a come back. He had a feeling something was going to start up between those two; it made his work life more interesting to think about.

"I don't think she has any other friends," Burley scoffed. "She spends all her time at NCIS."

Margaret tilted her head thoughtfully.

"She and Gibbs are a lot alike, in that respect," she murmured. "They're work-oriented and cold. They're honorable. That's why they'll never hook up," she added sternly.

Burley started to protest, and then he laughed.

"That's exactly why they'll hook up, Mags!" he said gleefully. He grabbed her and rolled over on top of her, attacking her neck with his mouth. "You know, Maggie, sometimes I think I love you."

"Remember what I said about love?" she chastised with a laugh. Her eyes sparkled and he rolled his eyes.

"It's just a chemical in your brain," he repeated, smirking. "Whatever, Mags, I still want to tell you sometimes."

His beeper started ringing and she grabbed it from under one of the pillows, smirking when she showed him the number that was flashing on it. He scowled—speak of the devil; of course Gibbs would be up working early after leaving so early.

"You'll have to tell me some other time," she said.

He sighed and watched her get up and start shedding clothes for a shower, and then he got up, perfectly fine with wearing the same clothes to work today that he'd worn yesterday.

* * *

"Nice suit," Jenny remarked, immediately noticing that Burley was wearing the same clothing as yesterday. He frowned a little; he had expected her to notice, but not so quickly. Decker looked up with mild interest and grinned. He gave Burley a thumb up.

Jenny rolled her eyes good-naturedly, casually reading over the file from the first Red Yarn body. Burley noticed a glint in her eye and straightened mischievously, looking between her and Decker. He dropped his backpack on the floor.

"Did you do something?" he asked, lowering his voice. "You look like you're up to something," he said eagerly, glancing over at Gibbs' empty desk. "Is Gibbs here yet?"

Jenny and Decker nodded.

"He's in MTAC," Decker said. "We may have some Intel on the case, so we're on standby."

"You did something," Burley said, looking at Jenny insistently. "What did you do?" he demanded.

"You'll see," she answered primly.

"Sleeping pills in his coffee, like I suggested?" Burley rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

She shook her head a little, rolling her eyes.

"Hey, it was a good idea!" Burley protested.

"It was not," Decker broke in. "So what, he falls asleep."

"Uh, _yeah_, but then we put Shepard's make-up on him,' Burley retorted.

"We can't do that," Jenny spoke up. "He's married; his wife would think he's cheating. You wanted to prank Gibbs, not Diane."

Burley sat down at his desk and glared at Shepard persuasively.

"Well, c'mon, what did you do?" he demanded.

She just smirked, winked, and turned to her work.

"It better be worth what we're paying you," Burley muttered.

Jenny tossed her head.

They'd just have to wait and see.

* * *

Gibbs was satisfied to see his team ready to work, bright and early, when he stormed into the bullpen, coffee in hand, just out of MTAC with information that might be pertinent to their case.

"Morning, Gibbs," Decker said, as usual.

"Morning, Boss," Burley said, with the distinct air of someone kissing ass. Gibbs shot a glare at the young agent and paused, noticing he was wearing the same clothing. Burley grinned expectantly; surprised he'd caught Gibbs' attention for longer than a split second.

"If you're gonna wear the same clothes, Steve, at least iron out the wrinkles," Gibbs growled pointedly.

Jenny snickered behind the file she was reading. Burley looked shocked.

"Iron?" he spluttered in disbelief, with nothing else to say.

"Yeah," Gibbs retorted. "Women have irons in their homes," he said knowingly.

"Objection," Jenny said, lowering her file pointedly. "I don't think I own an iron."

"Not all of us have housekeepers to do our laundry, Shepard," Gibbs said bluntly.

She narrowed her eyes in annoyance. She didn't bother to ask how he knew about Noemi, but it did make her wonder how much he knew about her personal life. Gibbs was irritating in that he _knew_ things—and what was more; now Decker and Burley were going to get their own ideas of how he knew she had a housekeeper.

"C'mon, Deck, you're with me—Shepard, you and Burley are going to…" Gibbs trailed off, staring down at a drawer he'd just opened. He frowned and looked up, searching for his train of thought.

"What?" Burley asked, leaning forward with interest. He glanced at Shepard. He grinned and then looked innocently back at Gibbs. Gibbs reached up, rubbed his head, and slammed the door shut.

"Shepard, Burley, I want you to go back and talk to the families of the Red Yarn bodies, ask specifically about a man named—" Gibbs broke off again and swore this time, staring into another one of his drawers.

"Something wrong, Gibbs?" Decker asked, pausing in his gathering of his things.

Jenny said nothing.

Gibbs muttered and crouched down, opening the lowest drawer. He slammed it shut forcefully and stood up, looking at Burley. Burley leaned back, his smile fading. He—Gibbs didn't think—

"Stan," Gibbs barked, using the right name for once.

Burley managed to look terrified.

"Where's my gun?" he demanded.

"I don't know," Stan said seriously. He held up his hands. "I don't know, Gibbs, I swear," he promised.

Gibbs just glared at the agent and then whirled back to his desk. He turned to the other side and opened two drawers at once.

"My badge?" he snapped.

"I didn't touch it!" squeaked Burley, frantically looking at Shepard.

Her file obscured her face. She used it to hide the smirk she shot at him. His mouth fell open and then he zipped his lips; she was out of her _mind_ to start hiding Gibbs' possessions from him. Gibbs slammed a drawer shut. He stood behind his desk looking, for once, confused.

"Where're we going, Boss?" Decker prompted.

"We're not going anywhere 'til I find my damn gun!" he growled, reaching up to rub his head.

He swore under his breath. His stuff was completely re-arranged. It hadn't been like this when he'd come in—he remembered putting his gun and badge in their usual place. He opened the usual drawer again and left it open, whirling around. He noticed that the slim drawer that rested right where his legs went under the desk was slightly off its track, and narrowed his eyes.

Jenny lowered her file slightly.

"Getting senile, Gibbs?" she asked innocently.

Just about to bend to open the slim drawer, he shot her a scowl, narrowing his eyes. He reached down and tugged on the drawer, but it didn't budge—it was jammed. He never used the thing; it figured. He grabbed his chair, pulled it up, and began yanking on the drawer forcefully.

He sat down in his rolling chair and, at the exact moment that he loosened the drawer and pulled it open, the contents spilled noisily onto the floor and the wheels on his chair collapsed, tipping it forward and sending him sprawling onto his ass.

Burley's mouth fell open in utter shock, and Decker's hand flew to his mouth tightly—presumably to stifle the roar of laughter that was flickering in his eyes. Jenny put her file down and leaned forward, her face unreadable.

"Oh my god," she said, concerned. "Gibbs, are you okay?"

He didn't answer.

Gibbs made no sound.

He was sprawled behind his desk, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. He blinked, rubbing his knee subconsciously. Someone had moved all of his things. Someone had unscrewed the wheels and legs on his chair. Someone had put his gun, badge, and keys in the drawer under his desk—upside down—and—and—

He was staring at the mess of things that had fallen out on top of his effects.

The drawer was full of condoms. Neatly, squarely packaged, brightly coloured condoms—all over the floor, all over his gun…just all over. He reached forward and picked one up, standing up slowly.

He was suddenly positive Burley hadn't gotten brave and pulled this stunt. He looked directly at Shepard, chucking the condom down on his desk loudly. He just glared at her. She looked back, blinking, unfazed. He had thought, for a moment, that he was going crazy—but no, it was just Shepard, screwing with him.

Shepard, _driving him crazy_.

"What the hell is this?" he asked, picking the condom back up and shaking it at her.

She titled her head.

"It's a condom," she answered seriously.

"What is it—are _they_," he gestured wildly to the floor, "doing in my desk?"

"How would she know?" Burley asked.

He received a glare that was almost as painful as the worst head-slap.

Decker stuck up for Shepard, too.

"Gibbs, Jenny can't explain why you have so many—"

"The hell she can't," interrupted Gibbs.

Jenny pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"Perhaps someone thought you needed extra protection," she offered sweetly.

He pointed at the mess on the floor.

"Pick them up," he ordered.

"I'm not your housekeeper," she retorted, leaning back and picking her file back up seriously. "I'm not touching your condoms."

"So help me God, Shepard," Gibbs swore. He whirled around and looked at Decker and Burley. "You two," he snapped. "You go talk to the families. Ask them if they've heard talk of Brix Heller."

"Aww, Gibbs," Burley started to protest.

The look he received was so formidable that he shut up immediately. Decker and Burley began to gather their things, and Shepard got up.

"You're with me, Shepard," Gibbs barked, stopping her. He pointed a finger at her and jerked it towards the ground. "Clean it up," he ordered again, and turned on his heel, storming towards the elevator to wait for her.

"Jesus Christ," hissed Burley, when he was sure Gibbs was out of earshot. "Did you see the look on his face?"

"Was it worth what you're paying?" Jenny asked, slinging on her backpack and huddling closer to Stan and Decker. They both nodded; each of the men handed her fifty bucks and she smirked, sliding the money into her back pocket. "Prank prostitution," she mused, grinning. "A career I never thought of."

"Do they offer that major at Georgetown?" Decker asked mockingly.

She rolled her eyes and turned to crouch next to the mess by Gibbs' desk.

"You really gonna clean that up?" Decker asked.

"No, you two are," she said brightly, getting Gibbs' gun, badge, and keys for him.

She smiled sweetly and strolled past them, her shoulders back, ponytail swinging prissily. She met Gibbs at the elevator; Burley and Decker started to protest, but looked at the mess—and decided they didn't want to deal with the enraged Gibbs that would result from a lack of cleaning up.

So, they did the rest of Shepard's dirty work.

* * *

Jenny couldn't hide the small, satisfied smirk that graced her lips as she stepped carefully onto the elevator with Gibbs. He pressed the button for the garage but, when the elevator started to move, he lunged across her and slapped the emergency stop button, effectively freezing the elevator.

The lights dimmed instantly and Jenny raised her brows.

She looked around with interest. She knew now that Gibbs used the elevator as his personal conference room; she had experienced it once before. In this particular situation, after she'd just embarrassed him, she had the good grace to be somewhat daunted.. She wondered if she was about to be tortured in some obscure, boot camp taught method.

She wondered if anyone would hear her scream.

In order to show no uncertainty, she smiled sweetly. She was good at smiling _sweetly_.

He wasn't moved.

"What the hell was that, Jenny?" he asked.

"An amusing event that brightened the day of all," she answered seriously. He looked livid, and she couldn't help but smile a bit more. He really was _unnaturally_ pissed about something that had been quite a clever joke.

"I look brighter to you?" he asked, gesturing at his face.

"I don't know, you turned the lights off," she whispered, pointing at the elevator stop button. She reached over to flick the machine back on and he grabbed her wrist, his grip firm and hot. She bit the inside of her lip.

"Don't touch it."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know you and the elevator were exclusive," she said. "I hope you two are using protection."

He glared at her. He didn't release her arm and after a moment, she gently pulled it back to her, rubbing it unconsciously. It felt as if his fingers had been burned into her skin, and for a moment, she was back in the showers, kissing him with all her might after that cold, muddy night.

She swallowed hard, and he stepped closer, tilting his head to her.

"You bet on me, I get half," he said. She widened her eyes; she was sure he hadn't seen Decker and Burley pay her.

"It wasn't a bet," she said honestly. "I was paid for my services."

"Hmm," he growled sternly. "Solicitation is against federal law, Shepard," he informed her.

"Ah, ah," she held up a hand as he tried to reach out as if going for the money in her back pocket. "It's only solicitation if I was paid for sex," she said. "I didn't have sex with Stan _or_ Decker."

That weirdly jealous look flashed through his eyes again and he reached around behind her, slipping his hand into her back pocket. Jenny gasped, startled by his audacity. She reached behind her to slap him away, and then paused; if he wanted to initiate, she didn't see the problem with accepting the advance—after all, she was attracted to him. What reason did she have to deter—

-she suddenly remembered the _wife,_ who was, of course, the _reason._

But at that point she didn't care. His palm slid over her ass, his fingers lingering as he slipped the cash out of her pocket and pulled it out, holding it between them. He split the amount and handed her half back. She was almost disappointed that he didn't put it back himself.

Jenny plucked the money from him, a brazen look in her eyes. He was still standing close to her. He reached over and turned the elevator back on.

"Which one put you up to it?" Gibbs asked, as if nothing had happened.

They both faced forward.

"I promised them immunity," she answered silkily. "The idea was mine, anyway."

He scoffed.

"You're too by-the-book to pull a prank," he degraded.

"You don't know me that well, Gibbs," she said tightly.

"You sayin' those two didn't coerce you?"

She smiled blandly and turned to look at him through her lashes.

"It's how I show affection, Gibbs," she said boldly. "I had to thank you some how for _protecting_ me from the SecNav," she said, stressing the word that referenced the condoms.

He studied her intently. He looked a little pleased by the answer, she thought.

"You show _affection_," he snorted, "by screwing with me?"

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Gibbs, lots of people show affection by screwing," she said coolly.

The elevator doors opened and she stepped out. She turned to him, stopping him in his tracks.

"Where are we going?"

"Metro police."

She stood looking at him, the height difference making her tilt her head up. He moved, slipping the cash he'd taken into his back pocket. Then he slowly reached behind her and gave her a firm, but restrained, head-slap—her very _first_ admonishing head-slap. Her brows went up in surprise.

She put her tongue in her cheek and then handed him his gun and his badge, pursing her lips. She held up his keys and jingled them; turning on her heel with purpose and strutting off to the government car they were assigned to.

He watched her walk away and, feeling every muscle and nerve ending ache to touch her again, flexed the hand he'd just had in her back pocket.

* * *

If possible, the Metro Police station was even more of a man's world than NCIS' federal office building. It wasn't as well kept; it reminded Jenny distinctly of jail, minus the convicts. There were remnants of late nights strewn over unkempt desks—empty Chinese take-out, half-empty pizza boxes, and stacks on stacks of coffee cups. There wasn't a woman's touch to be found.

Jenny smiled. She liked things a little rough and dirty. It reminded her of how hard she had to work.

"Hey, you guys the Navy cops?" asked one of the Metro officers, leaning back from his desk.

Gibbs nodded.

"How'd you know?" Jenny asked, greeting the man a little more amiably than Gibbs would ever consider. The guy smiled, showing off yellowed teeth that indicated he was a smoker, and shrugged.

"Knew someone from the Navy Yard was comin'," he answered, "Haven't seen you folks around before, so I put two'n'two together."

Gibbs cleared his throat and glared at Jenny, annoyed with even the smallest of small talk. He directed the glare then at the man she'd been talking with and barely parted his lips to grunt out one word:

"Earl," he said, naming the lead officer they were here to see.

"Yeah, Chief's around here somewhere," the man said. He swiveled around, cupped a hand around his mouth, and shouted: "Hey, Pip, get over here."

Across the cluttered, dreary squad room, a woman spun around in her chair and stood up, cocking her head towards the shout. She strolled leisurely towards the visitors; she was shorter than Jenny, muscular, and a plain kind of pretty, with thick, promising hazel hair and sharp eyes.

The metro cop jerked his thumb at her.

"Pip here'll take care of ya," he said.

"Colter said we'd be working with the Navy boys, maybe," the woman referred to as '_Pip'_ said. She stretched out her hand to Jenny. "Nice to see a female face for once," she said, smiling. "Rachel Havisham, I work with Chief Earl."

Jenny accepted the handshake and was pleased with the confidence in it. She pursed her lips, for a moment hesitating.

"Havisham?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Like Charles Dickens' Mrs. Havisham?"

Rachel Havisham laughed good-naturedly.

"Here's to hoping I turn out nothing like that mad old bat," she drawled, nodding all the same. "Though I'll tell ya, my expectations ain't that great."

"They call you Pip?" Jenny asked with a wry smile.

"Picked it up freshman year of high school. Never did shake it," Rachel answered. She shrugged and rolled her eyes happily, beckoning to them both. "Didn't catch your names," she added as she led them towards the back of the station.

"Jennifer Shepard," Jenny answered smoothly.

"Gibbs," Gibbs grunted bluntly after a moment of silence. Rachel looked at him over her shoulder and shot Jenny an amused look.

"He's talkative," she remarked.

Jenny smirked.

"He's had a trying morning," she said, lowering her voice sympathetically. Rachel nodded, businesslike.

"I don't reckon we're about to make it any better," she admitted, opening the door to Chief Earl's office.

* * *

"Special Agent Gibbs?"

The Metro Police Chief rose from his desk and extended his hand to Gibbs as Rachel closed the office door. Gibbs shook his hand amicably and nodded to the other man in the room.

"Jeremy Earl," the Chief said, pointing to himself. He offered his hand to Jenny next and she took it; Gibbs introduced her, though.

"My partner, Jenny Shepard," he said gruffly. She tilted her head, slightly caught off guard by the word partner. She figured Gibbs was using it as an easier explanation than NCIS' federal training system.

"You've already met Pip," Earl said. He gestured to another man lounging in his office. "This is her partner—"

The man stood up languidly and flashed his teeth winningly, reaching for Jenny's hand.

"Rick Colter," he said brazenly, his eyes boring into hers. She took his hand and he gave her a sly look. "I thought feds only looked like you in the movies," he said smoothly.

"Oh, lord, _down_ boy," whistled Rachel.

Jenny laughed all the same. Colter was young, probably only a few years older than her, and strikingly attractive in the way that Old Hollywood actors were attractive. His hair was dark and his eyes were piercing, and right now they were telling her they were interested in her.

Gibbs, with his no-nonsense glaring, was quick to break it up, introducing himself to Colter with a curt, dismissive nod and turning pointedly to Chief Earl. Earl gestured that they should sit; Colter hopped out of his chair to offer it to Jenny at the same time Gibbs pulled out a chair for her.

"Kind of you, Rick," Rachel said loudly, stealing his chair. Jenny smirked and took the seat Gibbs offered, leaning back to press her shoulders against his fingers. She felt him flex slightly, but he didn't move his hand.

Colter eyed the contact with interest.

"You've got something on our bodies," Gibbs said, cutting right to the chase. Jenny crossed her legs, compressing her lips. She was glad to be along with Gibbs for this visit; she hated talking to victim's families. She didn't envy Decker or Burley.

"Might have," Earl said, nodding. "Look, we heard it on the beltway that you've got a couple bodies linked with drugs," he said, looking critically at Gibbs and Jenny. Jenny nodded curtly and he looked satisfied; he went on: "Well, we've got an ongoing case involving drugs that we think has Navy connections."

Jenny uncrossed her legs and tilted her head. She glanced around at Gibbs. He removed his hand from behind her back and studied the chief, nodding.

"What's the connection?" he asked neutrally.

"Couple months ago, we busted this john for solicitation, him and one of our favorite prostitutes," a crooked smile crossed Earl's face and Colter grinned, glancing at Jenny and Gibbs.

"Sassy little lady named Kristina Kink," he snorted.

"We call her Kinky Krissy," Rachel supplied, grinning. "She's helped us out once or twice on homicide cases." Jenny laughed approvingly and nodded. Earl let the amusement die down and went on.

"Anyway, we bring 'em in for a booking and a slap on the wrist, and we turn up a couple pounds of cocaine on him."

"What's this got to do with the Navy?" Gibbs asked gruffly, irritated with the beating around the bush.

Colter spoke up.

"Marines, actually. Turns out the guy's a retired Gunnery Sergeant," Colter explained. "He'd been out a few years, so he was our catch. He was plannin' on paying Krissy with the coke, and she was gonna run it for him."

Earl nodded, and stepped in.

"We didn't think much of it at first, hell, we figured it was sad, a soldier back from overseas whose government didn't treat him right, turning to drugs—we tried to choke the supplier out of 'em, but we didn't get anywhere. Krissy's only helpful if you're hunting a killer 'cause then she gets spooked," Earl paused and leaned back. "So we forget the case for a while, on to other things, then we end up catchin' Krissy with another john who's using her as a coke mule, and we get to thinkin' somethin's up."

Jenny leaned forward on her knees, interested.

"How long had the gunnery sergeant been out of the Marines?"

"Two years," Colter supplied. "He wasn't a stellar Marine, but he didn't have a mark on his record, either. The second john Krissy was with didn't have a military connection, but he was a professional; it was clear he was just dealin' drugs, not sex," Colter paused, as if waiting for Gibbs or Jenny to ask a question.

"We brought Krissy in again," Earl picked up. "First time she was ever totally uncooperative. Pip here whittled her resistance, though, and we got it out of her that she'd sold her services to a guy who'd hooked her into being his coke mule, like some Harriet Tubman of drugs," Earl cracked a smile at his own reference before going on, "The guy was operating out of Anacostia and Columbia Heights, but he'd recently found some lucrative business in dealing with 'the dogs' as he called them."

Gibbs eyes flickered slightly with understanding.

"Devil dogs," he said, noting the slang term for American Marines. Earl nodded and snapped, pointing at Gibbs.

"You got it quicker than we did," he complimented. "When we figured it out, we hunted down the gunnery sergeant and brought him back in, started questioning him. It was messy; he was being blackmailed, someone in his old unit was our drug kingpin's partner and he got roped into helping run the ring," Earl waved his hand, as if bored of telling the same old story.

"You still got this Gunny around?" Gibbs asked.

"Nah, he's dead," Rachel said bluntly. "We tried to use him to operate a sting, to catch the leaders of the ring," she explained. "I went in as a hooker, but there was some leak, or something. Gunny ended up dead."

Jenny frowned.

"That's where we hit a dead end," Colter hopped in, "until we heard about the couple bodies you found. He thought it was an odd coincidence, but then your Director released that memo about the Red Yarn," Colter trailed off and leaned towards Earl.

"You mentioned this guy," Gibbs started. "This Heller—"

"Brix Heller, yeah," Earl said. "He's the civilian drug ringleader. We got that out of our gunny and we think that's part of why he's dead. Krissy's scared for her life and won't help us out anymore," he added.

"What makes you think Heller is connected to our two cases?" Jenny asked skeptically. "Bodies associated with the same drug don't necessarily associate the cases," she said.

Earl handed Colter a file and Colter opened it, pulling out a surveillance photo.

"We didn't think so, either," he said, handing the photo over pointedly. Jenny took it, holding it up to Gibbs. Earl fell silent as the agents eyed the photo, waiting for them to see it. Gibbs, squinting narrowly at the grainy resolution, saw it a split second after she pointed—

-the man in the photo had a thick, knitted red scarf wrapped around his neck.

Jenny turned her head up to look at Gibbs.

"Red Yarn," she murmured, arching an eyebrow.

It looked like they might be sharing point with Metro.

* * *

Jenny hung up the phone with Decker and turned to the waiting group of cops, shaking her head in the negative.

"None of the families have heard of Heller," she said, frowning. "One victim's sister said she heard him referring to someone as 'the contractor' on the phone, once."

Rachel snapped.

"Well, contractors build houses," she said. "Houses are made of bricks," she added, when people gave her odd looks.

Colter nodded, lounging against the desk he was leaning on.

"Good catch, Pip," he said, folding his arms. He turned back to their conversation. "We've got to bust the Navy connection," he mused, his eyes on Jenny. "Figure out who the Navy's mule is, if not who Heller's enlisted partner is."

"Under cover," Jenny said immediately. She lifted her hand as if it were nothing. "It won't be hard to stick someone on the streets in Columbia Heights or Anacostia, especially in the dark alleys," she said.

"Yeah, we know all about the dark alleys," grumbled Earl.

"Problem is, it is hard getting someone in," Rachel spoke up. "Last couple times we've tried, we've been made," she explained. "I don't know if it's that Heller knows all the unsavory characters, or if he's got some sort of link inside our precinct, but he recognizes our people."

Colter nodded.

"It's why we haven't been able to get close."

"That's an easy fix," Jenny said, leaning back. "We'll put some of our people in," she offered, looking at Gibbs for confirmation. "They won't recognize us."

"They might spook at strangers, though," Rachel said hesitantly.

Gibbs cocked his head thoughtfully and looked at Rachel.

"Which one of you's had the least contact with them?" he asked.

Earl looked between Rachel and Colter. He narrowed his eyes and then gestured to Rachel.

"She has, since she was injured on the op that was blown," he decided. "They'd recognize Rick, though," he said bluntly.

"Dress 'im up badly," Gibbs suggested. "Send him out to bait them a couple nights, and we'll ease Shepard in on the same nights," he decided. "Then we'll leave 'em alone for a few nights, keep Shepard out to get 'em used to her, and use her as our under cover operative," Gibbs paused, nodding. "We'll coordinate teams."

Colter smirked at Jenny. Rachel looked thoughtfully at Earl.

"It could work," she said slowly.

Jenny drew her eyes away from the dashing Officer Colter and looked at Gibbs, raising her brows. He met her eyes guardedly, his blue eyes determined, and she glanced at him through her lashes, her lips perking up at the corners.

"You going to make me hook, Gibbs?" she asked slyly.

"Just for kicks and giggles," he retorted dryly. She clicked her tongue and sighed.

"I suppose it's every girl's dream to play _Pretty Woman_," she said sarcastically. She remembered Burley teasing that Julia Roberts, redhead, was _just_ Gibbs' preferred type, and her stomach fluttered.

"You think you can pull it off?" Gibbs asked.

She lowered her chin and grinned.

"Is that a challenge, Boss?" she flipped her hair in a shallow, prissy way and puckered her lips, drawing on the sleek, southern drawl she'd learned to imitate from her college years in Georgia.

"Sugah, not only can I pull it off," she teased, assuming a prostitute's persona, "I can get you off."

It was merely a glimpse of how well she could play the part—a way for her to show off, but her voice was sultry and it washed over him; she saw him swallow hard, and she bit the inside of her lip sharply; they were treading dangerous waters, but she didn't feel like she could stop.

* * *

Hands had been shaken and the groundwork of plans had been laid and, leaving the Metro Police station, Jenny couldn't shake the budding excitement that came from the knowledge that she'd have an opportunity to hone her skills on a small undercover operation.

Gibbs had opened the door for her absent-mindedly, and she turned to shoot him a smirk, about to make a sarcastic remark, when her name was called across the squad room. She turned to see Officer Colter strolling towards her. He waved her over to him.

Jenny sidestepped Gibbs' glare and went to meet him, arching an eyebrow. Colter glanced at Gibbs over her shoulder, who was still waiting impatiently by the door.

"You got somethin' going on with your boss?" Colter asked forwardly, his brows going up suggestively.

Jenny managed not to betray her surprise and blinked casually.

"What's it to you, Colter?" she asked neutrally, refusing to answer a question that she found uncalled for and almost offensive. He shrugged good-naturedly and reached up to scratch the back of his head, drawing attention to his thick, rock-star hair.

"I don't want to prowl in some other cop's territory," he said. "Figured I'd ask if he had a claim before I asked you to dinner."

"I guess it's lucky for you that I'm not any man's territory," Jenny answered coolly, giving him a small smile. Colter grinned. He straightened up, looking heartened by her answer.

"You interested in having dinner sometime, then, Jenny?" he asked.

She bit the inside of her cheek and smirked. He was good-looking—and she could use something to take her mind off the guilty, heady swirl of attraction that was provoking her to focus her attentions on Gibbs. She held her hand out.

"Got a pen?"

Colter snatched a notepad out of his pocket and thrust it and a pen at her, a crooked, almost arrogant smile on his face. Jenny shook her head and scratched her phone number down for him. She handed the pen and notepad back and smiled, turning to leave without another word.

The irritated look Gibbs shot Colter, and then fixed on the back of her head, kept the smirk glued to her lips as her boss let the Metro Police door slam behind them.

* * *

"You gonna go out with that guy?" Gibbs asked gruffly, unlocking the car door in the parking lot. He paused, looking at her over the top of the vehicle. Jenny bit her lip, refusing to look up for a moment. When she did, she repeated the same thing she'd said to Colter.

"What's it to you?"

"Rule number twelve," Gibbs growled.

Jenny raised her eyes heavenward and sighed.

"And what would that rule be?" she patronized skeptically.

"Never date a co-worker," Gibbs retorted. Colter was a co-worker until this operation was over. Gibbs didn't want Shepard fooling around with him if it could end awkwardly—and he didn't like the idea of that pretty boy hooking up with _his_ agent, anyway.

"Date?" Jenny repeated thoughtfully. She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow, smirking suggestively. "That mean I can sleep with him, Gibbs? You don't have to date to have sex."

An indescribable look crossed his face, something that was sour and annoyed and amused and strained all at once. Jenny's eyes flashed gleefully at the mixture and he narrowed his eyes, getting into the car. She followed suit. He slammed the door and turned to her sharply.

"That what they teach you in college?" he asked sarcastically, saying 'college' as if it were some sort of progressive, immoral, indoctrination establishment.

Jenny tilted her head back and laughed at his words.

"Yeah, Gibbs, in 20th Century 101."

* * *

Burley stared at Jenny, one eyebrow raised.

"We're sending you in?" he asked again.

She frowned, frustrated with his reaction.

"Burley, you're acting as if I'm not qualified."

"You've never done under cover work," he retorted pointedly.

"If I never do it, then I'll never get the experience," she responded matter-of-factly. "It's hardly rocket science, Stan, it's prancing around in a short skirt and enticing men with sex, high-schoolers are doing it in math class."

"Aw, is that what you were doing in Math class, Jenny?" Decker asked, clicking his tongue in mock disapproval.

"I'm not very good at math, I had to get an A somehow," she retorted easily, shooting him a sly look.

"Here's a thought," Decker said, snapping, "Why is it that when cute little co-eds sleep with teachers, its hot, but when guys sleep with their teachers, she's a predatory cougar?"

"Maybe because you didn't look like I did in high school?" Jenny fired off smugly. Decker glared at her mildly and she laughed, leaning against her desk. "I didn't really sleep with my teacher, Will," she said, rolling her eyes.

"I was just thinking out loud," he snorted.

"Yeah, well, I was imagining it silently," Burley broke in. Jenny picked up a pen on her desk and sent it sailing towards him like a missile, smiling triumphantly when it stabbed him in the shoulder. He took it good-naturedly and grinned.

"Who's going in as your back-up?" Burley asked after a few moments, looking up. He was fiddling with the pen Jenny had thrown. He looked at Decker, figuring Gibbs' right hand man would know.

"Not me, I don't think," he said, shrugging. "He'll want me running tech with Metro. You know Gibbs, he'll want one of his men—er, team—at every point to make sure we're covered, he won't just trust Metro," Decker said.

Burley nodded and looked at Shepard.

"He'll probably be in as back-up," he said a little bitterly. "He thinks I goof off too much."

Decker thrust his arm at Jenny.

"Fat chance he's sending her in with only one gun as back up," he snorted. "Her outfit's probably gonna say 'come rape me', Gibbs'll have a damn _army_ hiding in those alleys to protect her."

"Outfits don't _say_ 'come rape me'," Jenny said sharply. "Men _rape_."

"Well," Decker said sheepishly. "Whatever happens, Gibbs isn't gonna let _that_ come close to happening," he muttered. "You'll have significant back-up, Jenny."

She smiled calmly.

"I didn't doubt that for a moment," she said.

She trusted these guys, but above all, she trusted Gibbs.

* * *

He'd been home for a few hours after dinner, and was getting ready to leave just as Diane had decided she was getting into bed for the night. She was in an edgy mood, and he was damn glad he had the excuse of an op to run to get him out of forcing conversation with her anymore.

"Where are you going to be again?" she asked tiredly, yawning as she rinsed out a mug that had been full of hot chocolate. The running water was loud, and filled the silence that he let hang before he answered shortly:

"Columbia Heights."

Diane winced, turning off the water and setting the mug in the drainer. She rubbed her forehead nervously.

"Be careful, Leroy," she muttered. "I _hate_ Columbia Heights."

"I've got a gun, Diane," he retorted dismissively. She folded her arms and stared straight ahead, ignoring his annoyed response to her concern. Her hair fell down her back messily; she'd had a stressful day at work, and Gibbs suspected she'd had bad news about her brother.

"Will you be back in the morning?"

"If I'm not dead," he drawled.

She put her hand on the counter and looked at him sharply, narrowing her eyes. Her cheeks were pale. She pushed away from the counter and stepped up to him.

"It isn't funny," she said aggressively. "You aren't funny, Leroy," she growled. He looked at her sheepishly, a little sorry he'd tried to joke and lighten her mood. She put her tongue in her cheek and gave him a nasty glare, brushing past him. "Don't come back in the morning, Leroy, just stay away until I'm asleep," she said over her shoulder.

He rolled his eyes and marched out of the kitchen to leave.

"I could use some time away from you," he heard her swear, though he wasn't sure if he was meant to hear it. The television flipped on, and he left the house, slamming the door in frustration behind him.

* * *

"Here," Detective Rachel Havisham was saying, removing a piece of tape from her lip, "is your tape recorder," she handed Jenny a smaller-than-usual black device with a tape inside, and taped the battery door closed. "It's old, but it works, and it's small, so you can find some place to put it that's…subtle," Rachel smiled wryly.

"I've already got a gun holstered under this skirt," Jenny said narrowly, eyeing the tape recorder dubiously.

Rachel's brows went up, and she looked down, cocking her head at the ratty, roughened old black leather skirt stretched tight across Jenny's upper thighs. She looked a little impressed.

"That puts a trigger a little close to the goods, don't you think?" she asked with a short laugh.

Jenny grinned.

"The barrel is pointed at my feet," she said. "It's bulky, but I practiced walking with it on at home," she smiled slyly. "I've gotten some of an idea of what it feels like to be a man."

"And?" Rachel asked.

"And I'd much rather be a woman," Jenny said dryly.

The women laughed, drawing looks from the men who were setting up on the other side of the warehouse they were in. Their makeshift headquarters were a bit of a trek from the alleys in Columbia Heights they'd actually be working in; Colter and Burley were going to be working tech from the warehouse while Decker and Havisham worked surveillance from a place much closer—a place that was much more risky to be in.

Gibbs was, as predicted, providing back up for Jenny, and Chief Earl was in an unmarked federal car, borrowed from NCIS, near the premises—if he was needed.

"Risky choice of footwear," Rachel said, as she waltzed back towards the boys with Jenny, "You sure you can operate in those heels if you need to?"

"Better than I could operate in flats," Jenny assured Rachel confidently.

"You're armed?" Burley asked Jenny skeptically as she approached. She nodded seriously and he glanced over her, looking away quickly. He decided not to ask.

"Where'd you find the getup, Shepard?" Decker asked, snickering. He gave her a thumb up and she flipped him the bird good-naturedly.

"Rebel stage in High School," she shot back.

"And it still fits?" asked Colter. "Impressive."

Jenny looked at him incredulously and gestured to herself.

"If you consider this fitting, I question your taste in women," she retorted. The clothing she was wearing was clearly too small and not in the least be appropriate. Colter just grinned appreciatively and shot her one of his devilish grins, as if reminding her that he'd expressed an interest in tasting her.

Jenny pulled her focus away from Colter and looked at Gibbs. He met her eyes, not bothering to hide the fact that he'd just been surreptitiously drinking in her outfit. It did surprise her that he smirked; he had been in a short, cold mood since coming in, and he'd hardly spoken to her.

"Alright," Earl said, drawing them in with his voice. "Krissy's on her usual block; we fed her some false information to feed to Heller; he's got goons staking out Anacostia, most likely, because he thinks we'll try to sting there—since that's where we've been making him nervous," Earl turned to Jenny. "Krissy knows we're sending a cop in, but we told her it was Rachel—you can work this how you want, Shepard, but if you start a stompin' ground fight with Krissy, it might fluster her enough to take her mind off how scared she is and keep her from talkin'."

"You _want_ me to start a turf war with the hooker?" Jenny asked, quirking an eyebrow in amusement.

"It depends on what you're comfortable with," Earl said with a shrug. "We need you in the area, close enough, to get either a recording of the trade, or even a visual identification of Heller; then we can continue building a case against him."

Jenny just nodded.

"Check your ear bud," Gibbs said.

She removed it from her hear and nodded, indicating that it was secure. She lifted her wrist and spoke quietly into the small mic hidden in a clunky bracelet she was wearing; she received a few nods to confirm it was working. The group looked around at each other and Rachel clapped her hands with a grin.

"Ready to rumble?" she asked.

Jenny tossed her head and put her hands on her hips, smiling sweetly. She widened her eyes to give them a come-hither, innocent look.

"Why, I reckon I'm as ready as I'll evah be, Miss Pip," she said, putting on her little Georgia drawl again.

Colter whistled and slapped his thigh.

"Hot damn, if it ain't Scarlett O'Hara," he joked dashingly.

"No, it's Belle Watling," Jenny said, correcting him light-heartedly. She grinned, but Colter looked lost, his brows knitting in confusion.

"Who the hell's Belle Watling?" Decker snorted. He'd gotten the Scarlett O'Hara reference, but Shepard's reference to the other woman threw him for a loop.

In a moment that was unexpected but predictable all the same, Gibbs yanked the rug out from under all of them by speaking up:

"She's the hooker," he grunted. When he received shocked, blank stares from his team, he rolled his eyes. "In _Gone with the Wind_," he clarified.

Jenny looked at him, impressed, and yet somehow, not surprised.

* * *

It was a hot, seedy June night, and even in the little clothing she wore Jenny was hot in the humid air. Columbia Heights was teeming with under-the-radar, dangerous activity that subtly reinforced its reputation as a bad place to be.

Her feet were sweaty, and slipped in her heels; droplets of sweat were trapped under the trashy costume jewelry she was wearing. The curls she had fixed into her hair were going to fall because of the damp atmosphere, but she figured the disheveled look gave an air of authenticity to her prostitute part.

She lounged against a wall across from the corner she'd been told was Krissy's, biting her nails absently. She hadn't caught sight of the infamous Kinky Krissy yet, and she was bored. She'd been out here an hour, with nothing to do but listen to the murmurs of the others in her ears.

"Getting hot, Shepard?" Burley asked.

She heard the snickers and rolled her eyes.

"You think I can go wrap myself around a lamp post and let the metal cool my skin?" she asked dryly.

She heard a few mutters, and then her ear bud crackled to life.

"Gibbs says you can, but only if you dance."

She laughed under her breath, continuing to bite her nails. It would certainly cure her boredom to swing around on a lamp pole for a while. She narrowed her eyes and looked around her again, listening to the shuffling, muffled voices, cat's hissing, and things thumping that took place around her.

A couple of young looking thugs walked by, probably high school drop outs, and she whistled at them provocatively, waggling her fingers. She played the part well. One of them stopped and tilted his head at her and she made smooching noises, putting a hand on her hip and a heel on the wall behind her.

"You lookin' for love, sugah?" she asked, raising her voice. "It'll cost ya'll a little but I can make it worth ya while," she trilled.

"How much you think you're worth, bitch?" one of the guys shouted back, giving a smug laugh that made her internally want to strangle him. She held her own though and gave him a rude hand gesture, like any street-smart lady of the night would.

"More'n you got, baby," she shot back.

Her colleagues were laughing in her ear and she had to suppress a grin; the upside of the cured exchange was that it brought the woman who must be Kinky Krissy out of hiding.

And she came out _blazing_.

Tall, well endowed, and spray-tanned, the woman had flashing, wild eyes that spoke of a hard criminal life and wild, red-and-brown highlighted blonde hair that framed a heavily made-up face like a lion's mane. She planted her hands on her hips; her knee-high boot clad legs spread apart and planted on the street, and started screaming.

"Who the _fuck_ do you think you are, _sister_? I've never seen your sorry, skinny ass 'afore and _you_ think you can just _strut_ in here and start in on _my_ customers? You sweet-talkin' little _redneck _bitch," Krissy bared her teeth at Jenny and thrust her hand out away from her, pointing. "Take your cheap, _hillbilly_ pussy and find your _own_ turf!"

Steeling herself, Jenny leapt forward off her wall and placed her own hands on her hips.

"I ain't tryin' to cause no trouble, _sistah_," she fired back, using the same language. "No goddamn Yankee princess is gonna tell me where I can stand—hell, sugah, maybe these guys 'round here is tired of your pussy!"

Krissy came storming across the street, and got up in Jenny's face.

"You watch your mouth, white trash."

"Bless your heart," simpered Jenny, "Ooh, honey, afraid of a little competition?"

Unexpectedly, Krissy reached out to yank Jenny's hair and, trained to defend herself, Jenny smacked the hooker's hand away and shoved it behind her back, pulling Krissy around in a locked position that reeked of 'cop'.

"Shit, sweetie, you're one of them," howled Krissy.

Jenny's heart stopped.

"Diffuse the situation!" growled Earl in her ear. Colter swore and there was crackling in her earpiece. Jenny shoved Krissy away from her and bent her knees a little, holding her fist up. Krissy stood inches away from Jenny, eyeing her with a look that was suddenly frightened.

"Jeremy _promised_ me," the hooker hissed. "The sonovabitch promised me you fucks were in Anacostia," she backed up, stumbling. "I gotta warn Heller—you _goddamn_ redneck _bitch_, you're gonna get me butchered."

Krissy started swirling around, her hands on her hips again. She looked as if she were about to start yelling. Jenny leapt at her and covered her mouth, dragging her near to the street corner.

"No one's gonna butcher you," she soothed, still putting on her character's accent. She swore mentally, unable to believe she'd given herself away so easily. Jenny laughed rudely. "Ain't no one who cares enough about a dumb slut to butcher her," she teased, letting go of Krissy's mouth and turning her around.

Krissy slapped Jenny's hand away from her.

"Nothin' to do with _caring_, it's all about money," she hissed. "I play nice with metro so they play nice with me and this isn't nice!"

"Sugah, I ain't' with Metro," Jenny drawled, patronizing the feisty Krissy.

"You can't say that, that's illegal," Krissy fired back, with the knowledge of someone who'd seen jails and public defenders too many times. "If you say you aren't Metro and you are, yer in deep shit."

"I ain't Metro," Jenny said again, stepping closer. Her voice was low and confident; the loophole was secure. She wasn't Metro at all; she was federal, and that was bigger and better.

Kinky Krissy seemed to be sizing Jenny up. She deflated a little and looked around quickly.

"You better get your ass outta here," she advised. "You don't want to be dragged into this bullshit with Heller," she advised.

"Lord, who is this Heller fellah?" Jenny asked in her accent. "He's got you sweatin' like a whore in church!"

"Don'tchu want plaus-bull de-ni-bility?" Krissy hissed, struggling with the vocabulary. "He's a scary bad fuck, you got that? Hit the road, _sugar_."

Jenny hesitated. She needed to stay in the area, but any pushing to hang around might tip Krissy off that she was, in fact, a cop. She wasn't sure she could navigate the area and find a hiding place; she waited for instructions, hoping her colleagues had been keeping tabs on the situation.

Her ear bud crackled to life after a moment.

"Back off, Shepard, back off," it was Colter.

"Gibbs is in the alley a block over, he knows where he can put you to record or see," this time Decker broke in, giving her the street directions.

Holding her palms out sassily, Jenny made a show of reluctantly backing away from Krissy, shrugging in annoyance. She smacked her lips and started to walk away, frowning and turning back.

"You got any idea where I can rack up some honest business, darlin'?" she asked the other woman, making a motion with her fingers to signify that she was talking about cold, hard cash.

Krissy looked at her bitterly.

"Darlin', for that, you shoulda gone to college," she said seriously.

In that moment, Jenny felt unbelievably bad for the other woman—she wondered what her circumstances were, what had brought her to prostitution, and security in the employ of a ruthless drug lord.

But with no time or power to do anything about it, she turned away, and followed Colter and Decker's instructions to Gibbs.

* * *

He appeared out of the shadowy alcove of the alley and scared the daylights out of her, but she managed not to react this time. She saw the disapproval and anger in his eyes and could have kicked herself or cried or both for nearly blowing the op. That look from him just stung so much.

"Gibbs—" she started.

"Hush," he barked in a dangerous whisper. He beckoned to her, and she followed him; he was leading her around, to station her somewhere she'd be able to keep an eye on Krissy and Heller.

She swallowed, aware that he might even be escorting her back and taking over for her. He was dressed like she was—in a way; he wore dirty, worn out jeans and a rumpled, frayed t-shirt that advertised half-naked Mexican women and Corona Light. There was a stupid, cliché gold chain around his neck and his hair was deliberately messed up; he looked like a scumbag, if you didn't look into his eyes.

Nothing could take the stoic honor out of his eyes.

She heard a noise and caught up to him, looking alertly around her. Gibbs turned around suddenly and she was standing in the middle of the alley, as he looked for her, unaware that she was so close. Over his shoulder, she saw the slinking, strutting silhouette of a man, and in her ear, Earl's voice said:

"Cover you ass, Gibbs, Heller just walked your way."

Gibbs tensed and grabbed Jenny's wrist, just noticing that she was so close. He seemed to be making a snap, difficult decision. She gasped in surprise; he reached out and gripped her shoulder, turning, and pushing her up against the alley wall.

She reached out behind her and smacked her palms against the concrete, surprised, and bracing her impact. He reached behind her and lifted her up; she dug her nails into the wall and grit her teeth at the horrible, chalky sensation it created as she was lifted up and her fingers dragged.

He leaned towards her—she thought he was going to kiss her—and put his mouth near her ear, his breath hot on her neck.

"Fake it, Shepard," he ordered.

He didn't kiss her; he was making it look like he was kissing her. To the man approaching—to Heller—she was a hooker turning tricks in an alleyway, and he was her mark.

Jenny smirked at the ingenuity, and tilted her head up. She took a deep breath and then let out a loud, _obviously_ fake, breathy moan—and she grasped the back of Gibbs' head, pulling his hair for quick revenge.

There was no way for Gibbs to reprimand her, except to scowl against her skin, but the touch of his lips and teeth brought a very real, very low moan to her lips, and she closed her eyes. She felt him breathing; she felt him move his hands.

He supported her carefully, his wrist pressing her concealed pistol into her thigh, his hands splayed over the leather and cotton that covered her ass and supporting her against the wall. She squeezed his hips with her thighs to help him keep her up, and continued acting the part.

"We won't be able to hear them," Rachel said in her ear, swearing. "They're too far away for the recorder to pick up."

"No one's going to hear Heller over Shepard, anyway," Decker spoke up, amused. "Tone it down, Jenny, he's convinced," he laughed.

Jenny clamped her mouth shut, feeling herself flush. She snickered and lowered her head to Gibbs' shoulder to muffle the laughter. He swore at her, warning her to keep her cool. She laughed harder into his stupid trashy t-shirt and he pinched her without thinking.

He pinched her with the hand between her legs and she gasped, a strangled squeal escaping her lips. Her eyes widened.

"_Jethro_," she hissed sharply.

He leaned back and had the decency to look abashed and guilty. She bit her lip, refusing to answer. She was afraid she might beg him to do it again, touch her like that again. Her lips burned; she remembered the kiss in the showers and she wanted to lean in and kiss him that hard _again._ He was staring at her with a raw, fiery look in his eye and she swallowed hard, parting her lips.

He put his hand on her thigh and gripped it, holding her leg against him. She reached between them and fumbled in her skirt; he sucked in his breath, her hand brushed inconveniently at his belt, pushing against his crotch. Gibbs discovered quickly that she was reaching for the tape recorder.

She turned it on, thrust her arm out as far as she could, and pretended to have her arm outstretched in sexual ecstasy. There was always the chance it would pick something up—and her eyes widened; she couldn't believe her luck.

Krissy and Heller appeared in the alleyway, Krissy looking nervous, Heller smoking a cigarette.

"Who's the new broad?" Heller was asking.

"I dunno, Brix, some little southern tart," Krissy said in a rush. "I shook her off, I chased her away, I ain't got trouble for you," she insisted.

"Shut up you little spaz," Heller growled. Their voices faded to silence. Jenny struggled with Gibbs a little, making a show of pretending to go at it. She bit her lip and hoped the recorder was picking something up.

The amusement of Decker, Burley, and the Metro cops was distracting her; they were enjoying the playacting of she and Gibbs in the alley, but it was trying her patience and her self-control. She wanted to drop the tape recorder and demand Gibbs fuck her against this alley wall.

It wasn't as if he was being the most respectable of men, either—she felt him hard against her even through his jeans, and while she supposed he couldn't help that, it flattered her, and it only made her breathless.

It seemed like an eternity they "faked" it; she had to keep holding onto Gibbs, forcing him to stay still, prevent him from moving against her because she couldn't imagine how embarrassing or awkward it would be if she actually came just from thinking about what he could do with the pressure of his body.

When Earl called them off, and the alley was deserted, he let her stand, and she was brazen as she held onto his belt to steady herself, slumped against the wall. Decker said something in her ear but she just looked up, away from Gibbs, breathing heavily, and itching to pull him back against her.

* * *

Even after a debriefing, copious amounts of teasing, and a breathing period, she didn't think she'd calmed down—not enough to ride, alone, with Gibbs back to the Navy Yard so they could return the car and get home for a few hours of sleep before reporting to Morrow in a few hours.

The car ride was silent, too silent, and his knuckles were white from a vice-like grip on the steering wheel. It was stupid for her to get into this car with him. Stupid. She should have insisted Decker go—but Decker was working with Rachel. Gibbs couldn't handle Stan right now.

It was so quiet.

Gibbs pulled into the NCIS parking garage and turned the car off. The lights in the interior dimmed and she sat staring. Jenny stared ahead of her for a moment, chewing the inside of her lip. Her head spun with words she couldn't say and an aching desire that hadn't been quenched in a long time.

She turned her head to look at him, opening her mouth. Nothing came out. He shifted in his seat and let go of the wheel. One of his hands twitched on the gearshift next to her, and with the other, he rubbed his mouth, frustrated.

He moved his hand down the gearshift and touched her thigh; her skin jumped, she bit her lip, her eyes widened imperceptibly. He slid his hand under her leather skirt and rubbed the inside of her thigh—the touch was exploratory, almost hesitant. A sound escaped her throat and he turned and looked at her, finally.

His hand froze. She arched her back, adjusting, and moved her knees apart, bracing her heels against the floorboards. She reached down her stomach to touch his hand and pulled it towards her, her fingers sliding over his.

He tugged at the edge of her panties, shoving them aside, his skin brushing hers—he started to stroke and she gasped, her lashes fluttering—and then it seemed like he might change his mind.

"No," she said, shaking her head slightly. She let her temple touch the headrest and stared at him, her lips moving soundlessly. "Don't stop, Jethro," she gasped as he started again, obliging her. "God, don't stop, don't _stop_."

Jenny closed her eyes. She kept her hand on his, feeling his movements, the twist of his hand and the curve of his fingers, thinking vaguely, somehow, that if she directed him, if she was doing it, too, then it wasn't as cruel to his wife—it was almost like she was taking the blame off of him.

It was an illogical, bullshit way of thinking, but it soothed the conflict that flared in her brain and let her enjoy the pleasure. She knew he was watching her, watching her bite her lip and breathe shakily and squirm in the passenger seat.

It felt so immature, so _high school_, but at the same time, so risky and so damn good.

Gibbs pushed his finger inside of her and her eyes flew open; she moaned, a wrinkle creasing her nose. The angle was uncomfortable; not quite painful, but not good either, and she shifted, putting her foot up on the dashboard. Immediately, it was better, and she arched her back again, gripping the handle of the door next to her.

"Yes," she moaned. "Jethro," she said breathlessly, her words hitching in her throat, she bit her lip, and then spoke again: "Move your palm—_god_—press the heel of your hand against—"

He didn't need the rest of the instructions, she found. He jerked his finger in a sexy, firm, come-hither motion, and pressured his palm against her, his hand sliding over her. Jenny's hand flew to her lips and she bit down on her knuckles, thrusting her head back against the seat.

The cold, metallic touch of his wedding band on her clit finished her off and she shuddered, the sudden clench of her abdomen almost painful in its intensity. She couldn't imagine anything more dizzyingly powerful except perhaps actual intercourse.

Her foot slipped weakly off the dashboard and she drew her hand from her lips to her hair, pushing her red locks back. Her shoulder slumped and she relaxed slowly, her lips parted. She licked them; he pulled his hand back and she winced. His palm rested on her bare thigh, warm, his fingers wet and sticky.

Gibbs reached out and pushed his hand through her hair, slipping his arm behind her neck and shoulders and resting it over her, almost comforting her. Perhaps he was apologizing to her; perhaps he was trying to assuage his guilt. He leaned forward on the steering wheel and rubbed his mouth again.

She caught her breath and realized she didn't feel guilty, she just felt good. He made her feel good. His hand moved on her shoulder and he rubbed gently, and she closed her eyes.

They sat like that in the car, in the dark NCIS parking garage, for a long time.

* * *

References: Margaret Mitchell's _Gone with the Wind,_ Charles Dicken's _Great Expectations,_ Pride and Prejudice; 2005 Film (Darcy flexes his hand after lifting Lizzie Bennett into her carriage).

"Kinky Krissy" takes her name and some vibrant personality quirks from my friend, Kristina. While "Havisham" is a Dickens reference, Rachel is a name borrowed from another friend of mine.

_Feedback is much appreciated!  
__-Alexandra_


	8. There's Something About Jenny

_A/N: It's as if they're teaching "everything but" up at NCIS or something. ;) Hope everyone had a Merry, Merry Holiday, and a Happy Boxing Day to my English friends._

* * *

_Chapter Seven: There's Something About Jenny_

It was the second time in a week or so that Jenny had felt as if she were back in high school. Ending up tangled half-heartedly on a couch in a somewhat heated embrace after a casual first date dinner was certainly reminiscent of her youthful glory days, though with age came alcohol in the drinks and much more satisfaction in the touches.

Then again, Jenny hadn't spent _too_ much time on boy's couches in her school days, and she was discovering that she currently didn't care to spend any more time on Rick Colter's.

Turning on all of the coy and demure she mentally possessed, Jenny slowly eased away from the handsome metro cop's kiss and smirked, batting her eyelashes.

"Ah, my coffee is getting cool," she remarked smoothly, sitting upright on the couch. She subtly pulled down the hem of her skirt and rubbed her hands sanitarily on the inseam of his jeans, smiling a little smugly at the unbuttoned, un-tucked disarray of his shirt.

He grinned back and reached up to sweep his floppy bangs off his forehead, giving her a devilish look.

"You don't think I asked you up for _actual_ coffee, do you?" he asked dashingly.

"I understand the metaphor, Officer Colter," she said wryly, arching an eyebrow as she did indeed take a sip of the lukewarm coffee. He leaned back and lounged lazily, his hand behind her shoulders on the sofa.

"Alright, I get it, baby, you want to take it slow," he said, teasing her.

Jenny tilted her head back and laughed.

"Slow as molasses, Rick darling, what kind of gal do you think I am?" she retorted, putting on the same accent she'd used undercover as the hooker. He groaned playfully and bent forward to press a string of kisses to her throat, his teeth scraping her skin.

"You've gotta know how that accent gets me goin', Jenny," he muttered.

She licked her lips, tilting her head up absently—the mention of the mission in the alleys had her mind on Gibbs again, and what she and Gibbs had done in his car right afterwards.

She was reminded again why she wasn't in the mood to continue this little hook-up session into a full-blown one-night stand. She'd already tolerated his hand up her skirt and in her panties long enough to know that if it wasn't Gibbs, she wasn't getting turned on enough to cross the proverbial _finish_ line—and as infuriating and confusing as that was, she internally shrugged her shoulders, faked an orgasm for Rick's sake, and returned the favor with what she personally felt was a rather talented handjob.

It was somewhere in the midst of the heavy petting and the reaching third or second base in the realm of baseball related sex metaphors that she realized she felt like she was sixteen again, and she'd lost interest.

Colter was unbelievably attractive; he had a sexy voice, he was arrogant in a way that was harmless and charming, and he clearly knew what to do with his hands. But he wasn't her icy-eyed, off-limits boss and he just couldn't seem to get her hot like the forbidden fruit.

Poor dear.

Jenny frowned, narrowing her eyes. She set her mug down and tilted her head, smiling through her eyelashes at Colter.

"I had better get going," she said with an air of regret.

He held out his hand and made a face. He lifted his eyebrows seductively.

"What can I do to make you stay, baby?" he asked.

Jenny slid her hand back and forth over his knee, puckering her lips.

"You can stop calling me your _baby_," she whispered, giving him a playful wink. Jenny smiled and tossed her hair, standing up. She adjusted her skirt and slipped on her heels, looking around for her purse.

"Dinner was good," she said silkily. "I had a good time, Rick," she assured him. She shot him an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I haven't been good about taking my pill lately. Sex isn't a smart idea."

He frowned a little curiously.

"Missing one or two pills really gonna screw us over?" he asked.

Jenny tilted her head thoughtfully.

"Maybe not," she allowed. "It's risky."

He smirked at her.

"I'd consider myself a risk taker," he drawled

She returned his salacious look and picked up her bag, walking around to bend over the back of the couch and put her lips close to his ear.

"You know, I'd say the same of myself," she whispered throatily. "But the only thing I don't take risks with is my uterus," she added, and then clicked her tongue. "_Baby_," she called him ironically.

Rick snorted, laughing good-naturedly. He sat forward and buttoned his shirt, zipping and fastening his jeans as well.

"Yeah, yeah, fair enough," he said. "I'll walk you out," he offered pleasantly.

She accepted the offer. She ran her hand back through her disarrayed hair and checked her pager; she was in the clear.

"Mmmm," murmured Colter, turning to her at the door of his apartment and looking over her appreciatively. "Damn, I wish you'd stay, Jenny," he swore.

She shrugged brightly, puckering her lips in a mocking frown.

"I have to be at work at six in the morning," she said. "Gibbs runs on military hours," she leaned a little closer and lowered her voice huskily. "And he doesn't approve of my dating a co-worker."

"Oooh," trilled Rick slyly. "Then we'll have to keep this under covers, eh? Sneak around behind the boss's back?"

"You're getting a little confident," she responded, arching a brow. He grinned that movie star, winning grin of his and swept down to kiss her on the mouth, his arms going dramatically and warmly around her waist.

Jenny smiled. The kiss felt good; light, unburdened with cuckolded wives or moral ambiguity. She laughed as she pushed him away and rolled her eyes, opening his apartment door to leave.

"Hey, I'll call you, Jenny," he said sincerely.

She started to leave and then turned, pursing her lips thoughtfully. She shook her head.

"Don't," she said simply. "I'll call _you_," she corrected, smirking.

She pulled the door shut quietly on his amused face and made her way down the hall of his middle class apartment building, heels clicking, physically and emotionally frustrated, and itching for the touch of a man she couldn't and shouldn't have.

* * *

Gibbs was frustrated, tense, and a whole slew of other distracted feelings, none of which were conducive to having Diane straddling his hips provocatively and pressing suggestive, coy kisses to his chest. He was doing his best to respond to her, but he was finding that both physically and mentally difficult, and he was fervently trying to devise a plan for escape before she noticed that he wasn't in the mood—and he wasn't going to _get_ into the mood.

"Diane," he said gruffly, when her mouth started to move lower towards his navel. He slid his hands into her hair and gently coaxed her to look up at him. He shifted to a sitting position and she moved over, stretching out next to him, her leg rubbing against his intimately.

He cleared his throat, running his hand over his mouth roughly. She raised her eyebrows at him.

"You sure you want to turn that down, Leroy?" she asked dryly.

He forced a smirk.

"It isn't that I wouldn't enjoy it, Diane," he said. She shrugged, pursing her lips matter-of-factly.

"I'm not offended," she said. "I'm good at it," she added with a shrug.

Entertained by her brazen self-confidence—one of the things that had always attracted him to Diane—he lay back and turned towards her, giving her an appreciative look up and down. It wasn't something he could disagree with; she was good at giving head, and she had been since their first date.

"What's up?" she asked. She bit her lip and then laughed, leaning forward, and shaking her head against his shoulder. "Sorry," she murmured, kissing his shoulder sweetly. "Terrible choice of words," she said slyly.

He rolled his eyes.

She composed herself and lifted her eyebrows insistently.

"It's not that," he said gruffly, shooting her a defensive glare. She rested her palm on his chest and slid it downwards, giving him a frank look, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. He grabbed her hand and stopped her pointedly.

Diane flipped her hand out from his and let it lay, palm up, on his stomach, giving him a slightly annoyed look.

"We didn't even get started," she pointed out. "I barely touched you, Leroy, either you _think_ you can't get it up, or it's something else," she snapped bluntly. "What's going on?"

He didn't exactly like the low blow to his manhood, so he fixed a cool, silent glare on her in response and thought slowly about how he was going to respond. He didn't care if his lack of immediate answer pissed Diane off.

"Feeling your age tonight?" she goaded sarcastically.

"Bullshit, Diane," he snapped back, provoked. "I've only got a few years on you."

"Are you calling me old, Leroy?" she asked dryly. She sighed, smiling a little, and pushed her hand against his side lightly. "I'm not _trying_ to start a fight," she said quietly.

He shrugged carelessly.

"Not in the mood," he offered gruffly. It was a generic, frustrating excuse—but it was the truth all the same. He didn't feel like sleeping with his wife—sexually or otherwise—he felt like retreating to his basement and his boat and being alone to think about his recent actions and his present thoughts.

She snorted.

"I thought the day would never come," she drawled, relaxing a little and laying her head down on his shoulder. She stretched her arm lazily across his chest and shifted to get comfortable, resigning herself to just sleeping. He felt her close her eyes and she swallowed; he sensed she was still restless.

"Think you can find it in you to give me some attention?" she asked dryly, opening her eyes and propping her head up on her palm. He turned his head and looked at her guardedly. He didn't answer; he'd been concocting an excuse to leave the bedroom and get to the basement.

Gibbs arched an eyebrow.

"C'mon, honey," Diane said huskily, tugging his hand towards her. "You've been at work for days, I've had bad days at work all week," she said. She bat her eyelashes and pressed her mouth to his neck—and guided his hand between her legs, dragging her oversized t-shirt and his hand up her thigh.

The pads of his fingers brushed the soft, pliable cotton of her panties and he turned towards her, curving his fingers under the hem. He heard Diane's soft intake of breath and he leaned over her to kiss her shoulder; she tilted her head back—and then an image of Jenny flashed before his eyes; Jenny, with her head thrown back, her green eyes fixed on him, her leg braced up on the dashboard of NCIS' federal car—he stopped.

He pulled his hand away a little abruptly and splayed it on her upper thigh, lifting his head gruffly. Gibbs rolled onto his back again and then sat up, turning his back to her.

"What the hell?" Diane asked bluntly, exasperated.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and rubbed his forehead tensely. He shrugged his shoulders.

"It's work," he said shortly, standing up. He grabbed his discarded jeans and threw them on, grabbing the back of his head and scratching, agitated. He looked at her and she narrowed her eyes, no doubt cooking up a slew of hostile things to say to him.

"It's always work," she said, throwing a hand out. "It's _always_ work, Leroy!"

Bristling, and latching on to a way to get him kicked out of bed, he fired back at her:

"You should be used to it."

Her cheeks flushed unhappily and she shook her head, gritting her teeth. She looked at him aggressively for a moment, blinked, and then just laughed mirthlessly, laying down and pulling the covers up tightly around her.

"It's a shame that the only emotional attachment you're capable of is to that godforsaken boat," she said bitterly.

He ignored her, and ignored that the insult cut him even a little, and left the bedroom, feeling a dull sort of triumph at having escaped the suffocating place that any room with Diane in it was starting to become.

He jogged down the stairs to the boat and slammed a Mason jar right side up onto the workbench, rummaging around for some bourbon to fill it with. He stared at the boat, his hands itching uncomfortably to touch it—maybe itching to destroy something, or itching to pull the wrong someone closer.

He was capable of emotional attachment. He didn't express it the way Diane did, and that was apparently a crime. He probably understood attachment more than she ever could; he was emotionally attached to Shannon and Kelly and he couldn't let go.

It was impossible to let go.

Gibbs swallowed another mouthful of bourbon and swore out loud, wincing as visions of Jenny flashed through his eyes again. A wave of guilt hit him and he scowled—because he, once again, numbly recognized that it wasn't that he felt guilty because he was betraying Diane, he felt guilty because he wasn't thinking about Diane at all. Fleetingly, he thought what Diane didn't know wouldn't hurt her—and maybe he thought he wasn't doing anything wrong because he hadn't actually _slept_ with Jenny.

But he wanted to. He knew that he wanted to. He knew now that Jenny would reciprocate if he made a move, and that put him in a precarious position. He was bound by law and honor to refrain from making a move, but there was something about Jenny.

It was perhaps that Jenny wasn't Diane—Jenny didn't know about Shannon and Kelly; Jenny didn't know a damn thing about him, and he didn't think Jenny cared.

And that would make things infinitely easier on him.

* * *

Jenny pulled at the collar of her shirt as she walked into the bullpen, making a sour face. She dropped her bag near her desk and dropped down in her chair, looking around in distaste. Decker had the first two buttons of his shirt undone; Burley looked annoyed, but he was still buttoned up.

"It's hot in here," Jenny said distastefully.

"You think so, Probationary Agent Obvious?" Burley said, looking at her darkly.

She glared at him.

"Why, yes I do, Special Agent Sarcasm," she retorted petulantly.

Decker rubbed his forehead and pointed his pencil between them a look of annoyance on his face.

"What is this, middle school?" he asked. He grumbled under his breath and leaned back, turning his attention to Jenny. "The air conditioning is on the fritz. It's going to be muggy for a day or two," he filled her in.

"Will there be exceptions made to the dress code?" Jenny asked practically.

"Why?" asked Burley, perking up. "Thinking about wearin' a bikini, Shepard?"

She ignored him, while Decker shrugged.

"Uh, not even sure NCIS technically has a dress code," he said. "Agents wear jeans, Miller wears sweats sometimes," he said, looking mildly interested. Burley smirked and leaned back. He wriggled his eyebrows at Decker, cutting Jenny out of the conversation.

"Then Jenny could come to work in a bikini," he drawled.

"Wear anything within _reason_, Stan," Decker answered with a roll of his eyes.

Burley threw his hand out in an open-palmed gesture at Jenny.

"It's perfectly reasonable for her to come to work half-dressed!" he protested impishly.

The moment he finished, Gibbs' hand collided firmly with the back of his head and Burley hissed, his cheeks flushing.

"Everyone keeps their clothes on," Gibbs said bluntly, getting into his desk for his badge and gun. He glanced up at Jenny and jerked his head towards the elevator. "Go get a report from Miller on the Metro join case and anything else she's got for us," he said brusquely. "Burley, you're with me, we got to follow up on a domestic violence report," he muttered.

Gibbs was leaving the bullpen just as abruptly as he'd come, and Jenny got up quickly to follow his bidding, stepping onto the elevator with both him and Burley. She ended up right next to Gibbs, their hands just shy of touching, with Burley standing right behind them—and she made a point of not looking at him, or breathing too much, or really thinking it all.

It was too hot in the building for her to be too close too Gibbs.

* * *

Walking into Miller's lab was a welcome relief; it was considerably cooler and more comfortable in the underground parts of the building. She smiled a little in relief and slowed her pace, looking around the lab for her friend.

Margaret's lab coat was folded neatly on a table, an indication that the temperature in the building was definitely off. Rare were the occasions when Margaret removed her lab coat.

"I don't have anything—oh," Miller strolled out of the ballistics room, pushing goggles up on her head. She gave Jenny one of her little quirky smirks. "It's you," she said, looking brighter. "I don't have much for you," she said apologetically.

Jenny grinned.

"But if I was Gibbs, you would have had nothing?" she asked smugly.

Miller shrugged and pulled her goggles off, laying them next to her coat. She turned to her computer and looked matter-of-factly at the figures and facts she was pulling up.

"If Agent Gibbs tried a little honey once in a while, I might miraculously get results for him," she said smoothly.

Jenny stepped up beside Miller and cocked her head at the meaningless graphs and numbers on the computer before her. She waited for the scientist to begin speaking, but Miller was chewing the inside of her lip and studying everything resolutely; Jenny waited patiently, unwilling to interrupt the woman's train of thought. Quite suddenly, Margaret pulled up a sound file and clicked play, lowering the volume. Immediately, Jenny recognized her own—fake—moans of ecstasy, though they had a fuzzy sort of quality to them.

"You said you don't have much?" Jenny prompted.

Margaret straightened up and smirked slightly.

"I've been able to discern a few words from either Heller or the hooker, this, ah, 'Kinky Krissy'," Miller paused and gave Jenny a wry look, "but it's difficult for me to siphon off anything, given the racket you're making."

Jenny had the good grace to blush slightly, her mind flashing back to that semi-under cover up in the alley where Gibbs had pushed her up into that concrete wall and told her to fake something she didn't really need to fake.

"It's fake, Mags," Jenny said, with a little roll of her eyes. She preened a little. "I'm quite impressive in that department."

"The Department of Fake Orgasms?" Miller asked, arching a sleek brow. She snorted. "I think that's one of the most depressing accomplishments I've heard someone brag about."

Jenny puckered her lips good-naturedly, but before she could answer, Margaret went on:

"Speaking of pleasure, sham or sincere, how was your date with the cop?"

The redhead tilted her head, considering the answers she could give, and then gestured to the screen, where her theatrics were still playing through the speakers.

"There was a lot of _that_ involved," she said dryly.

Margaret took a moment to interpret Jenny's words and then cocked her head with interest.

"You slept with him?" she asked.

"_No_, Margaret," Jenny said, taken aback. "It was the first _date_."

"Oh, right, I forget you're a prude," Miller said bluntly.

Jenny flushed slightly and then shook her head, biting the inside of her lip. She smirked a little and poked fun at her friend a little, giving her a sly look.

"And I forget you're easy."

"I'm not easy; I like sex," Margaret answered. "Men are easy."

"You got that right," Jenny agreed, laughing. She licked her bottom lip and turned around, leaning against Margaret's desk. She tilted her head back and forth, and after a moment of waiting, Miller spoke again.

"If you didn't fuck him, then why the faking?" she asked.

Jenny held up two fingers and wiggled them in a vulgar gesture. Margaret nodded and turned off the tape she'd been playing, looking momentarily thoughtful.

"He wasn't good at it?"

"He wasn't bad at it," countered Jenny. She lifted one shoulder. "My head wasn't in the right place. Poor thing, he was putting some muscle into it," she added wryly. Margaret shot her an understanding grin and laughed, shaking her head.

"Still, when you fake it, you let 'im get away thinking he's got the magic touch," she admonished good-naturedly.

Jenny folded her arms with a wicked grin and tilted her head at Margaret.

"It's kind of fun to fake it," she drawled.

Miller looked at her like she'd lost her senses.

"You don't think so?"

Miller laughed sarcastically.

"Oh _sure_, I think no orgasm is _great_," she answered.

"Well, that part is undesirable," muttered Jenny. She smirked. "But I can console myself with how amusing it is to pull the wool over their eyes," Jenny looked up at the ceiling and snickered. "The men, they're too busy being smug and dense to notice."

Miller laughed in disbelief.

"Do you just have really bad sex?" she ribbed.

"No, I just don't have as much as you," Jenny shot back amicably. She chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully, considering her past sexual experiences. She wasn't particularly promiscuous, though she wasn't the prude Margaret thought her to be, either. She was young, though, and had never really been in a serious relationship, so that contributed to her partner count. Jenny wrinkled her nose and shrugged. "I find it's more reliable to get myself off, that's all," she decided lightly.

"You can borrow Stan, he's good," Margaret offered flippantly.

Their conversation was put to a stop by a strangled clearing of the throat.

"Jesus, did Gibbs send you down here for a progress report or a slumber party, Shepard?" Decker asked gruffly.

Jenny straightened up and looked at him, her eyes meeting his brazenly. He reached up and rubbed his ears as if to indicate his fragility and innocence had been forever marred, and Miller snickered at him and went back to her work.

"It was your choice to eavesdrop," Jenny reminded him coolly.

"I wanted to leave, but I couldn't walk away," he answered, a grin slipping across his mouth. "I was hoping for a _When Harry Met Sally_ moment."

On cue, Margaret pressed play on Jenny's recording from the alley. Jenny gestured dramatically to the speakers as if introducing a famous play and Decker, his cheeks lighting up with a blush, managed to smile sheepishly.

"That's very nice, Jenny," he complimented, attempting a deadpan expression.

She cracked up.

"You should hear the real thing," she retorted smugly.

Decker, suddenly overcome with some previously buried bit of gentleman, flushed an amusing shade of red and turned to Miller gruffly, reiterating that Gibbs was requesting something—anything—from her, and turning the tide of the talk back to work.

* * *

It wasn't so much hot in the squad room as it was muggy and a little humid, so the sluggish, slightly petty behavior of the team could be somewhat excused. Gibbs was the only one who seemed utterly unfazed by the uncomfortable atmosphere. He leaned against his desk, his face an expressionless mask, holding a large cup of steaming coffee.

"How are you drinking that swill?" Jenny demanded suddenly, frustrated by his apparent immunity to the heat.

Gibbs didn't get cold; he didn't get hot—nothing _daunted_ Gibbs.

He gave her a narrow look and lowered the cup pointedly.

"Keeps me cool," he answered bluntly, his eyebrow twitching just a little.

Burley scowled at Jenny and Decker just shook his head, pinning up another photo onto the corkboard they were using to organize information from the joint Metro case. He held a paper loosely between his lips as he stapled the most recent on to the board. It was a strip of paper that quoted some of the recording.

"Miller managed to lift a few vague snatches of conversation from the tape," Burley said, pointing with a red laser pointer. He wriggled the little dot around some quotations on the first sheet and Jenny started to read it off.

"Hey," Burley cut her off, swiveling the laser pointer so the colour of the dot disappeared as it was pointed into her mouth. "We discussed this, Shep, your job is to moan and scream and Decker's job is to try and talk over you," he said seriously. "Just like on the tape."

Jenny just glared at him. Decker snorted, shook his head, and took up where Jenny had left off, reading the quote:

"…the dogs, don't let 'em bark…" he said.

"That's code, then," Burley muttered, his red dot back on the corkboard. "Devil Dogs, marines, how original," he muttered. He lowered his pointer, and Jenny obliged, reading out the next quote Miller had managed to decipher:

"…or I'll make them whine…I've got you on a leash, Krissy, don't….muzzle…" she read off slowly. She frowned unhappily, and began thinking.

"…smellin' like bacon around her lately, Krissy…" Decker read off. "He knows the cops are onto him," muttered Decker.

Gibbs looked unconvinced.

"Metro has a leak," he said gruffly.

His team looked at him in surprise.

"You think, Boss?" Burley asked, his laser pointer disappearing as he, distracted, gave it a rest.

Gibbs didn't answer; his expression did.

"Metro always has a leak," snorted Decker suddenly, quoting something he'd once heard Mike Franks say. "You go through their records, Gibbs?"

"Every time they try and pull somethin' on Heller, the cover gets blown," Gibbs answered bluntly.

"So why didn't they screw us over when we were in?" Jenny asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Would have made it too obvious there was a leak," muttered Decker.

"Who do you think it is?" Jenny pressed on, her eyes still focused on Gibbs.

He took a sip of his coffee and gave her a glare that was somewhere between teasing and hostile.

"Why don't you ask your boyfriend, Shepard?" he drawled sarcastically.

"Boyfriend?" Burley snapped to attention, looking wickedly at Jenny. "You're dating a metro cop? Which one?"

Jenny flushed but set her jaw and gave Gibbs a nasty look. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat.

"I do not have a boyfriend," she said vaguely. She cut her eyes at Gibbs in an unfriendly manner. "Officer Colter is a good man," she informed him tightly.

"Is he?" Gibbs asked, a little mockingly. He didn't say much else, but Jenny bristled, annoyed with his acidic behavior. She turned her back on him, facing the corkboard again.

"We didn't get the name of the enlisted marine Heller is selling to, and we don't know who his partner in the Corps is," she said.

"I figured we'd have to go in again with Metro," Decker said. "But if Gibbs thinks there's a leak, that could be dangerous."

"We can hold our own," Burley said, shrugging his shoulders. "It doesn't seem like the leak is dangerous, does it? I mean, they said the last few times the cover has been blown, they've had a warning injury, or the guy's been a no-show," he explained. Burley looked at the team half-heartedly. "If we put Shepard back in, and put back-up on a rooftop this time instead of in the allies, she'd be safe."

"Stan, don't volunteer her for risky shit like that," Decker said, giving Burley an annoyed look.

"Volunteer me?" Jenny asked, scoffing. "It's my _job_, Will," she said, brushing it off. She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. "I'll go back in."

The three of them looked at Gibbs. He looked to be considering the issue, reluctant, and distrustful. He took a thoughtful swig of coffee and frowned, his eyes fixed on Jenny.

"Go over the Metro cases again," he said gruffly. "Find the most probably leak, see if we can be prepared for it," he added. "I'll call Chief Earl and set up another operation."

Burley leaned back, satisfied with the outcome, and began playing with his laser pointer again. He fired it at Decker's forehead, and then covertly turned and pointed it at Jenny's chest, smirking playfully at her.

"Hell, Jen, you look happy to see me," he drawled, wriggling the little red dot in the middle of her breast suggestively. "You're practically glowing."

She shot him a snarling look and Gibbs; as he was leaving the bullpen for a coffee refill, hit Burley mercilessly upside the back of his head, pausing to reprimand him with an icy look.

"You do that again, and I will put my boot so far up your ass..." he said aggressively, and it was clear from his intolerant tone that he meant it, and he didn't think it was funny. She sat down in her chair, refusing to look at Gibbs, and looked sideways at Burley, pulling some paperwork towards her.

"Don't call me 'Jen'," she muttered.

* * *

Diane smiled as her youngest patient accomplished a successful round of exercises without falling, crying, whining, or any other troublesome therapy catastrophes. Amelia clapped excitedly when she realized she had finally achieved her therapy goal and darted into Diane's arms, hugging her tightly.

"I did it!" the five-year-old shrieked proudly. "Did you see it, Mrs. Gibbs? Did you see all of it? I did it!"

Diane laughed and hugged Amelia with one arm, nodding enthusiastically. She let go of the child and extricated herself from the hug, a bright, encouraging look glued onto her face.

"You sure did, Miss Amelia!" she agreed happily. "You sure proved all those scary doctors wrong, didn't you?" Diane asked.

Amelia put her hands on her hips and gave Diane a prim look.

"Uh, yes ma'am!" she agreed. "They said I'd never walk again—well!" she sniffed dramatically, lifting her hands and prancing around in a circle. "Look! Mrs. Gibbs, maybe I can learn to dance!"

"Yes," agreed Diane earnestly, reaching out to ruffle Amelia's curly golden hair. "You can learn to dance. You can learn whatever you put your mind to," she said confidently, touching her finger to Amelia's nose. Diane stood up and held her left hand out to the little girl, looking around the physical therapy children's arena they were in. Amelia slipped her hand into Diane's.

"Is Mommy here yet?" she asked.

Diane spotted Amelia's mother waiting excitedly outside the glass, holding Amelia's baby brother. Diane beamed down at the five-year-old.

"She is, Amelia," Diane assured her. "I think she saw you perform!"

Amelia squealed happily and squeezed Diane's hand tightly, her small nails digging into Diane's skin and making little crescent moon shaped dents. The happy-go-lucky, optimistic kindergartener swung Diane's arm as they walked towards the hall, and she lifted Diane's hand, examining the rings there.

"Your ring is pretty, Mrs. Gibbs," Amelia gushed. "It's so sparkly and I love it, like Mommy's from Daddy. Did Mr. Gibbs give it to you?" she asked politely.

Diane looked down at the brilliant cut diamond, inlaid in a silky white gold, which rested on her ring finger next to her wedding band. She smiled half-heartedly, briefly remembering when Leroy had given it to her, and then swallowed, nodding brightly at Amelia.

"He certainly did," she answered neutrally.

Amelia squealed.

"Did you _cry_?" she asked curiously. "My mommy _cried_," she informed Diane, matter of fact, as she scampered through the door and skittered into the hall. Diane laughed and shook her head, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ears.

"No, I didn't cry," she said sincerely. "But I did give him a very big kiss," she said secretively.

Amelia giggled and smiled happily at Diane.

"Like in the movies," she snickered, twirling around. She burst out of Diane's grasp and darted to her mother the moment they turned the corner, her voice rising to an ungodly volume. "MOMMY I COMPLETED MY THERAPY!"

"I saw you, darling!" Amelia's mother responded, reaching down to try and catch Amelia as she tried to fling herself into her mother's arms. Diane jolted forward and took the baby, allowing Amelia's mother to sweep Amelia up and congratulate her with a hug. "Shh, let's keep quiet, we're still in a hospital," she reminded the five-year-old.

Diane settled Amelia's brother on her hip, careful to keep her hospital ID out of his reach.

The baby cooed at her and stroked her face, fingering her earrings gently.

"He's in a good mood," Diane remarked.

"Oh, yeah, he napped the whole drive over and then some," Amelia's mother said breezily, still lavishing plenty of attention on Amelia. "So, she's finished?"

Diane smiled, and nodded.

"Yes, for all intents and purposes, she's finished, Beth," Diane answered. "She'll need a few check-up appointments, and I'll keep in touch with her pediatrician, but other than that, she's all cured and on her way to being a famous," Diane reached out and tickled Amelia fondly, "ballerina."

Amelia giggled and blushed.

"Oh, Mia, can you say _thank you_ to Mrs. Gibbs?" Beth asked, her eyes shining with pleasure.

"Thank you more than anything, Mrs. Gibbs!" Amelia said, obediently and earnestly.

She wriggled out of her mother's grip and dropped to the floor, hugging Diane's legs happily.

"Here, let me take him," Beth said, leaning forward to take her son back. Diane handed the baby over, somewhat reluctantly, and crouched down to accept another thankful hug from her favorite patient.

She was really going to miss coaching this little girl into health again. Amelia's youth and resilience was a refreshing escape not only from the bitter, unwilling therapy patients Diane usually dealt with, but from the brooding, infuriating pain of her own husband.

To her horror, Diane realized she was about to start crying, and she quickly kissed Amelia's head and straightened up, brushing her scrubs off in a business-like manner.

"I hate to cut this short—" she began, but Beth took up the reigns quickly.

"Oh, no, don't worry, Diane!" she soothed. "Amelia, come on, we're going out for ice cream—we can come by and say goodbye to Mrs. Gibbs when we set up check-ups," she placated.

"Okay," Amelia agreed a little sadly. She waved enthusiastically. "See you soon, Mrs. Gibbs!" she said, taking her mother's hand and allowing herself to be whisked, skipping, away.

Diane turned her back quickly and retreated to her office, checking her appointment book curtly. She had a three-thirty with a grumpy alcoholic with a power tool injury and a five o'clock with an elderly woman with knee problems. It was going to be a late night and for once, she relished it.

Things with Leroy were strained, but oddly calm. It was almost as stressful to be civil as it was for them to fight—and she was having a harder time than usual. She was always the girl who didn't have any interest in children, but lately, Amelia had begun to change her mind. Diane didn't know if she'd be good at motherhood, but she was eager to try—and it wasn't something she would bring up to Leroy.

She was afraid of how he'd react. She didn't want to dredge up painful memories, but, selfishly, she thought she spent too much time worrying what the hell _Leroy_ was feeling. He didn't seem to give a damn what she was dealing with.

Diane sank down at her desk and slipped her hands over her face. She felt like she was losing grip on herself and her marriage at the same time. She missed the early days; she missed dating him. She _missed_ the time when she was too blind with affection to see his flaws.

She supposed she missed the Leroy she constructed in her fantasies, but she wasn't sure he had ever really been that man—and what scared her was that she might be just as in love with this troubled, dark, impossible man who she lived with and yet almost didn't know.

* * *

On the third day that NCIS' air conditioning was on the fritz, the single, solitary, _one_ satisfying thing about the sordid situation was that Gibbs finally seemed to be disconcerted—if not outright outraged—about the heat.

In a spooky, almost terrifying turn of events, he had a cooler around his coffee cup when he returned from a short caffeine break; it was a comical little look, as if a can of Budweiser and a cup of Starbucks had mated to form a little chilled cup of coffee.

Jenny leaned back in her chair and bit the end of her ink pen, raising her eyebrows mockingly. He shot her a warning look and sat down angrily at his desk, setting the queer looking cup down.

Taking advantage of Burley and Decker's absence from the bullpen, Jenny decided to provoke Gibbs.

"You know they make iced coffee," she said helpfully.

"What?" he barked, looking up at her suspiciously.

She nodded her head at his coffee cup with the cooler around it.

"Iced coffee," she repeated.

"What the hell is that?" he scoffed.

"It's coffee, which is a caffeinated drink you often consume," Jenny answered slowly, as if speaking to a small child, "and it is poured decadently over ice, which is frozen chunks of the natural resource water."

Gibbs glared at her with his jaw set; he looked like he was torn between ripping her head off and laughing. Since he did neither, she felt it was safe to keep going. She grinned.

"If you got it iced, your cup wouldn't look so stupid."

"I'd look stupid with a frilly cup of _icy_ coffee," he retorted unexpectedly, wrinkling his nose sarcastically.

"_Oh_, this is about _ego_," Jenny sighed, pouting her lips. She sighed dramatically. "Gibbs, no one would think you were less of a man if you drank iced coffee."

"Know about twenty marines that'd disagree," he responded gruffly.

"Friends of yours from the Corps?" she asked. He glanced at her, and she saw the affirmation in his eyes rather than heard it from his lips. She whistled as if in total disbelief. "You have friends, that's adorable."

He didn't answer, just got to work on more paperwork for the Red Yarn case and the Metro case. She did think, however, that she detected a small smirk of approval—she wasn't dense; she knew Gibbs thrived on someone screwing with his head. He derived pleasure from mildly frightening Burley and Decker, but he derived more pleasure from butting heads with someone.

There were other reasons he derived pleasure from her—or, well, she supposed she'd been the one pleasured—but that was beside the point; they were mutually agreeing to pretend that had not happened.

The kiss or the car.

Jenny bit her lip and leaned forward, her fingers skating hesitantly over the forms in front of her. If she could get Gibbs into just the right mood, she'd be able to get his help in appeasing the Director's request that she see a psychologist.

She swallowed hard and stood up, walking to his desk with the papers in her hand. She let them rest against her skirt as she came to a standstill and perched on the edge, looking warily around her.

He moved his cup apprehensively; she did not miss that his eyes fell directly to her ankles and traced a slow path up her calves, thighs, and abdomen before settling guardedly on her face.

"Get off my desk," he said coolly.

"I don't see your name on it," she responded, lifting an eyebrow.

He dropped his pen and rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache, looking over at her subtly. He cleared his throat and then gave her a sarcastic smile, nodding at the file that was resting against her thigh.

"What is it?"

"My psych evaluation forms," she answered in a low voice.

He lowered his hand from his head and focused on the papers, reaching over to take them. His hand brushed her leg, dragging her skirt up a little—she was positive it was an accident—and it flustered him; he cleared his throat, and she reached down to adjust the skirt, her hands brushing his; his skin was warm with the sticky heat of the office.

Jenny sucked in her breath silently and shifted, moving slightly away from him.

"Need you to twist Ducky's arm, get him to sign them," she said, her voice neutral and heavily controlled. "I noticed he signs off on yours."

Gibbs looked at her sharply. He didn't know how she knew that—he figured she'd asked Miller to look into his files, or she'd managed somehow to get a hold of them herself. He let it go; he knew it was useless to try and tell her otherwise.

"Did you see the psychologist?" Gibbs asked gruffly.

She tightened her lips.

"Would you see the psychologist?" she retorted.

"Isn't about me," he answered quietly.

She narrowed her eyes and stood, reaching for the papers.

"I don't need a shrink, Gibbs," she said in a firm, low voice. "I just need a signature."

He studied her for a moment, and then stood up, jerking his hand for her to follow him. She obliged, getting into the elevator with him and folding her hands tightly as he looked over the papers and pressed the button that would take them to autopsy. Jenny felt like wilting the moment the lift doors closed; it was stifling in the tiny grey box, and the slight motion that ensued when it began moving made her sick and a little dizzy. She swallowed hard.

"You been sleepin' okay?" he asked.

"What?" she asked thickly, closing her eyes.

It was too hot for the jerky motions of an elevator not to cause a little motion sickness.

"After you shot Munic," he said gruffly. "Sleep."

"I sleep fine," she answered grimly. It was probably totally unconvincing, but it was half true—Munic didn't haunt her dreams. Amphibians did.

"You weren't fine that night," he said gruffly.

She scoffed quietly.

"I'm sure you were fine the moment after you first put a sniper shot in-between someone's eyes," she said aggressively. Refusing to let him gain ground, she smirked lopsidedly and lowered her lashes, glancing at him a little provocatively. "You didn't seem to care if I was fine when your tongue was down my throat."

She surprised herself with the audacity of the comment, but she was not startled that his hand flew down on the emergency stop switch and brought the elevator to a jolting stop that flipped her stomach and shrouded them in darkness.

She made a face; it was too hot for this stupid intimidation trick of his.

He turned towards her.

"I wasn't taking advantage of you," he growled.

Her brows went up, and her lips pursed slightly. She hadn't been expecting him to defend himself so much as she'd been expecting him to order her to never mention that slip up again; it was intriguing that he was more concerned about convincing her that he wasn't some sort of lowlife.

She bit her lip.

"No one took advantage of anyone," she said coolly.

She reached out to take her forms from him; he was clutching them and wrinkling them up. He mistook her action for something—else, apparently, and reached out to touch her arm, his hand encircling her elbow tightly.

Her arm was bare; in an attempt to be cool but appropriate, she was wearing a sleeveless blouse—one with a very modest neckline, but one that was cut to reveal her arms and shoulders. His hand was like an iron brand on her skin, hot; so _hot_.

"Jethro," she said raggedly. "It's too hot in here," she was almost pleading.

He nodded.

"Yeah."

There was that moment again; the moment when neither one of them really moved, because they were waiting for the _other_ to move. Then, her eyes were closed, and her back was pressed against the wall of the elevator—and it wasn't even a little cool, wasn't soothing at all; even the walls were humid.

She felt the forms she needed signed flutter to the floor, spinning against her legs as they scattered. She opened her lips under his, her palms pressing against his chest uncertainly—uncertainly, because she needed to push him away, but she wanted to dig her nails in and pull him closer.

His hands brushed against her thighs, holding her hips against him temptingly, and then his grip changed, wandered up to her ribs and then brushed her breasts, hugging her closer at the shoulders until it really was too hot and he really was too dazzlingly close for her to breathe or think.

She did push him away, though it wasn't convincing.

"It's too hot in here," she said in a rush, her lips shaking—already feeling bruised.

Her cheeks flushed full of shame; she was morally annoyed with her for _only_ stopping because it was uncomfortably sweaty. He put his palm on the wall behind her and nodded, his jaw set, a muscle jumping in his temple. She arched her back, trying to move around him, and her hands brushed between them innocently—he sucked in his breath and she bit her lip, murmuring a soft apology.

Therein lie the difference in their indiscretion; she could suffer in silence, and school her features and give nothing away, but he'd have to walk around with the hard evidence. She slipped past him and flicked the elevator back on, leaning against the opposite wall, and watching him slowly pick up her forms in the silence.

* * *

A bewildered Gibbs was one that Jenny was definitely not accustomed to, and that seemed to be the state he was in as they stepped off the elevator. He cleared his throat hoarsely and handed her the forms he'd gathered, drawing his hand back as if he'd been burned when their fingers brushed.

She winced, feeling aroused and a little sick and upset all at once, and she managed to give him one hell of a smirk; he schooled his features. He looked as if he were silently searching for something to say, and as they walked into Ducky's autopsy room, Jenny breathed an audible, delighted sigh—it was cool in autopsy.

Thank god for corpses.

The doors swished closed behind them, and she was quick to realize Ducky was nowhere to be found.

"Figures," she muttered. She uttered a curse under her breath and walked over to a metal slab, slapping the papers down with misplaced frustration. She reached up and pushed her hair back, making a face as she felt sweat drip from her neck down her back.

Gibbs strolled around, fidgeting, and finally settled against another slab, leaning back, his arms folded.

"Where'd you get the stomach to kill?" he asked bluntly.

She looked up with a hollow glint in her eye. He was really intrigued by her assertion that killing Munic hadn't bothered her. Well, he needed to get over it. It has shaken her up when it happened—but she was over it. It wasn't that she had _the stomach to kill_; it was her job. She had to kill Munic to save a life. She got it done. The end.

She searched her mind and the answer bubbled to her lips before she could stop it.

"My father."

It was another half-truth. It was when her father had been killed that she realized she had it in her to murder someone. It was halfway through law school, when she'd interned for the defense of a triple homicide, that she'd decided some people deserved to die.

Gibbs didn't look surprised or interested. He nodded.

"Why'd you drop out of law school?" he asked, surprising her with his knowledge.

She narrowed her eyes, her mouth tightening. She didn't answer.

"Georgetown," he provoked. "Hell of a school to just _quit_."

"Why'd you join the Marines?" she fired back shortly.

She knew he wouldn't answer; they stared at each other. The answer was reflected between them, in the depths of their eyes: personal reasons. He grinned after a moment, as if impressed or—or something.

"How old are you, Jenny?"

"Getting a little personal, Gibbs?" she asked in a low voice. She straightened up and licked her lips, pushing her hair back. She fanned herself, taking advantage of the cool air, and arched an eyebrow at him. "Don't you know it's impolite to ask a woman her age?"

He shrugged.

"Coulda just looked it up," he said.

She tilted her head. It was the one thing he didn't seem to know. Briefly, she wondered if he knew about her father; about the accusations and the controversy. She pushed the thoughts away, feeling the stress of it try to overwhelm her. She needed a distraction.

"Where's Ducky?" she asked, almost desperately.

Gibbs looked around, and shrugged again. She put her hand over her lips and paced away, then paced closer, then paced away. She turned and looked at him, surprised mildly to find he'd approached her, a guarded look of concern on his face.

"I'm twenty-five," she answered bluntly.

His brows shot up in surprise. She swallowed hard, and her hands were shaking as she reached to touch his sides, to pull the shirt out of the waistband of his pants brazenly; Jenny closed her eyes and—ironically—prayed for strength. She turned and pushed him up against the autopsy drawers, her body molding to his in a way that made her give a gasp of heady desire.

His muscles were rigid, his hands roamed hesitantly, trying to find a place to land, and she let a small squeak of approval pass her lips when one came to rest on her lower back, fingers dipping below her skirt to knead into her skin and surrender; pull her close her.

It was cool and air conditioned in autopsy, but she was still too hot—he was too hot, and this was the only way to cool down; it was only fair.

He'd done it to her.

* * *

The sound of his zipper was loud; it seemed to bounce of the walls and echo ominously in her ears. Her heart pounded in her chest—she had no idea where Ducky was; he could walk in in the next second—and she let her forehead fall against his shoulder, breathing heavily.

He was barely touching her, just holding her hips tight to him, his other hand brushing, stroking, and exploring the parts of her he could reach comfortably. She ran her nails from his navel to the unbuttoned top of his pants and grit her teeth when she felt the tightening of his abdomen.

It felt almost as good to touch as it did to be touched.

Her practical side screamed at her that if she was going to do this, there wasn't time to waste, but a wicked side of her wanted to freeze this moment and memorize what it felt like to be pressed against him like this—just in case it was the last time.

_It should be the last time._

Practicality won out and with deft fingers, she made some adjustments to his pants and boxers and gave herself room to work; she let her knuckles brush him almost mockingly at first, and then she curled her thumb and forefinger into a loop around his cock and pushed it down the length of him with an expert amount of pressure.

He muffled his groan in her hair, but she felt it down her spine and in the pit of her stomach. His palm fell heavily to her shoulder, then slipped to her neck and tilted her head up. He pressed his lips to hers hungrily—she kissed back, though she was surprised; she hadn't expected too much intimacy in this.

She pressed her body against him hard, giving a vague thanks to god for the way he positioned his knee between her legs. Her skirt rode up a little and he reached down to grip her thigh, his fingers pressing into her flesh tightly, gripping tighter with every firm twist of her hand.

Gibbs lips brushed the corner of her mouth; she felt him grind his teeth together and clench his jaw muscles and she gasped a little when he thrust his hips into her hand.

"Slow down," he forced out through set teeth, and she smirked, shaking her head. He growled at her, and held onto her thigh more tightly, another groan escaping his teeth. She tightened her grip, relaxed tauntingly, tightened again, and jerked her hand up quickly, flicking the soft pad of her thumb over the head.

"Jen," he said hoarsely.

She tilted her head and met his eyes and he parted his lips, a dark flash of arousal flaring through his blue eyes. She pressed her palm between them, her nails pricking his ribs slightly, and switched techniques, using her index finger and middle finger in a V shape.

Gibbs threw his head back, and the bang that resulted from his skull hitting the handle of a freezer drawer made her gasp, and made her head ache, but she didn't check to see if he'd hurt himself. He shouted out in a muffled, almost comical way—as if he'd just remembered he shouldn't be getting a handjob in NCIS autopsy—and her attention was diverted elsewhere.

Jenny plastered herself against him, her thighs sliding against his knee as she did so, and pulled her hand away quickly, cupping her palms to try and run damage control as he came.

He pulled her hair, his hand clenched in a fist, and she bit her lip, closing her eyes and leaning forward to rest her head momentarily against his chest. She jumped at the sound of his shoe hitting the wall behind him and cleared her throat, stepping back.

It seemed like a thousand years that she stood with her head pressed against his chest, listening to his labored breath, but of course it was mere seconds. His rough hand brushed against her forehead, stroking her hair and skin, and she looked up, taken aback by the tenderness, until she realized with somewhat of a modest blush that he was cleaning up the mess.

Jenny pressed her lips together and disentangled herself. She found her way to one of Ducky's drawers, pulled out one of the blue disposable towels he used in autopsy, and thrust it at Gibbs, looking down to check her blouse and skirt for evidence of their dirty deeds.

He handed her the towel back, and she heard him zip as she took care of a spot near the hem of her sleeveless top. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat, bunching the towel up in her hands.

She was saved the agony of having to say something; the autopsy doors swished open and Ducky bustled in, followed by two agents. He noticed Jenny and Gibbs, gave them a brief hello, and directed the agents to wait.

"What ever are you two doing down here?" Ducky asked good-naturedly. "I don't have a body for your team."

"Cooling off, Duck," Gibbs lied effortlessly.

Jenny felt the unnerving urge to laugh, giddy, as if she'd just pulled the wool over the teacher's eyes.

Instead, she just blew air out through her lips breezily, and feigned fanning herself, and directed her thoughts to the hot bath and electric toy she was going to need when she got home tonight.

* * *

Fighting with Diane was never pleasant, but tonight, for reasons he chose to ignore, it was twice as miserable.

Gibbs slammed another hand tool into his toolbox and kept his back to her, his heart slamming angrily against his ribcage. He hated her for barging into his sanctuary and blindsiding him with this argument. He hated her for interrupting the precarious peace that he found in this basement. He hated her for things that were his fault, not hers, but that he wanted to blame her for.

"I tried to remain civil, Leroy," she insisted sharply. "You just won't _listen_ to me!"

She was right; he admitted to himself, she had tried to be civil, kind. He was just so against the idea. It was wrong; the very thought of it tasted terrible.

He looked up and shot her a condescending glare.

"You really think that's a good idea, Diane?" he snapped. "Having a baby?"

"It isn't a ploy I came up with to save our marriage!" she shouted, her voice quivering. "It's something I've been struggling with, you just haven't been around to notice!"

"You're always struggling with _something_," Gibbs retorted meanly.

She crossed the basement floor in three irate strides and slapped him, hard. He shook his head in disbelief, his eyes wide and his mouth open in shock. He moved his jaw, trying to quell the stinging pain that shot through his nerves.

Diane dissolved into tears and clutched the hand she'd slapped him with to her mouth.

"I'm sorry," she apologized immediately. "I shouldn't have—dammit, Leroy, don't you understand it's the only way I know how to hurt you equally?" she asked, her voice thick with sobs. "You're this hunk of rock, it's like you don't feel, but I know that physically I can—I can at least leave a bruise, or something red," she reached out and brushed his jaw, where he practically felt her flat palm burned into his skin.

"I'm not a rock, Diane," he said, almost viciously.

She laughed nastily.

"I don't want another baby," he said roughly and then even he looked surprised at his words; her eyes widened and her cheeks paled. Another—he'd said _another_. He never referenced Kelly voluntarily, _ever_.

Silence fell between them and he looked away, staring off to some distance place she could never go.

"You said you didn't want them."

"Leroy, I—I know, but,"

"You said you didn't want them," he repeated icily.

"You said you were only married _once_!" she burst out, flinging her hand out desperately. "You lied; I changed my mind—which is worse? Which is _worse_, Leroy?" she demanded.

He just shook his head stiffly, refusing to answer, refusing to look at her. He had been keeping to himself all night, even when she came home early and offered him supper, and then she had come to him—they should have known this conversation would never remain civil long.

"You won't even _consider_," Diane said weakly. "It might—it might help you heal," she said, reigning in her anger. She touched him and his muscles flexed threateningly. "You're good with kids, you know," she said.

His eyes snapped up to hers and there was a terrible, raw, black look in them. It wasn't anger, it was unfiltered suffering, and it almost made her heart stop the moment she saw it—but she couldn't be tortured too long by that look, because it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"It won't _heal_," he snarled bitterly. "That isn't how it _works_, Diane," he barked, his words laced with pain. "She died."

"I know," Diane whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks again. He didn't say anything and she swallowed, sniffling, and licking her dry lips. "I don't know how it feels," she said honestly, almost apologizing for her lack of ability to help.

She didn't feel like fighting anymore.

He didn't look at her.

"I hope you never do," he said suddenly, his tone blunt and withdrawn.

Her heart leapt into her throat; in a way, it was one of the kindest things he'd ever said to her. It occurred to her that in his mind, he was protecting her as much as he was protecting himself. He didn't think he could survive another child, and he didn't want her to possibly suffer losing one.

"Come up to bed," she said, after letting the silence hang for minutes on end. "Leroy."

He didn't answer for a long time, just staring ahead of him with faraway eyes.

"No," he said finally. It was a dull answer, but it was final.

Diane left him alone, even though part of her wanted to stay and do everything she could to make him let her comfort him. She left him alone, and sat down at the kitchen table, her head in her hands.

Her brother was getting sicker, she wasn't getting any younger, and her marriage was slowly slipping through her fingers—no matter how hard she tried to hold on.

* * *

It figured that on the day the air conditioning at NCIS was finally back on track, Gibbs' team was taking the morning and most of the afternoon off in order to run the next covert operation with Metro after hours.

Though it was a little frustrating to know she had suffered for days in that humid office and wouldn't get to revel in the cool, Jenny was content to bum around her father's—_her_—house all day in seclusion.

She was to meet with Gibbs and Decker at NCIS at nine o'clock, and until then, she had the day to herself—she was using it to unpack. Noemi had been right when, after digging out Jenny's yellow rain boots, she gently reminded the redhead that there was no need to keep Georgia—and even Georgetown—boxed up as if she were going back.

It was time to move on, and accept the cards life had dealt her: Colonel Jasper Shepard was disgraced and dead, she was a law school dropout turned Navy cop, and she was blissfully unhappy.

Not to mention she was foolishly fooling around with her married boss at inopportune moments all over the office, and the strange emotions that came with that cliché stupidity were taking a toll on her.

She did not quite feel guilty; she felt slightly numb. The problem stemmed from the fact that she was attracted to Gibbs and, after working with him for a few months now, she _liked_ Gibbs—she felt drawn to him. Such an unreasonable, stupid thought irritated her; she had no right to be _drawn_ to a man with a wife, and she was never the girl who believed in just "feeling" that someone was right, either.

She joined NCIS to get a man, but by _get_, she was talking _kill_, and by _man_, she was talking _frog_.

Jenny held her old college ID between her teeth and swept her hair back again, throwing aside a stuffed bulldog and sifting through some Emory t-shirts until she decided there was nothing in this box that she really needed. For a moment, she sat looking at a t-shirt from her freshman year at the College and wished fervently that she was back on the southern campus, flying from booth to kiosk to table trying to ingratiate herself into every organization she could.

But then she shook her head and stood up, sliding the ID card into her back pocket and moving over to another box.

No, she didn't really wish she were that idealistic, naïve eighteen-year-old. She had been happier then, but she liked herself better now—at least she had, until she'd decided to start making choices that might emotionally hurt someone.

Jenny snorted and left her old bedroom, walking down the stairs to her kitchen where she fetched a glass of lemonade from the fridge. She desperately wanted a tumbler full of scotch, but she refrained; she was on duty tonight.

She went into her father's study and sat at his desk, running her fingers over the chips in it that she'd made as a child, in various careless ways. She smiled fondly and leaned back, thinking of the good memoires that had occurred in this room instead of dwelling on the fact that he'd died here.

She wondered what it was that had happened to Gibbs that left the mark of death in his eyes. She recognized it because she'd seen that blemish reflected in her own eyes so often, no matter if she were smiling, crying, angry—it was always there, detectable only by those who knew it from their own personal trials.

She wondered if they would ever stop playing weird, anything-but games and sleep together and then, with a start, she wondered if she was beginning to think like Stan _Burley_.

* * *

"Aw, no mini skirt today, Shep?" Burley puckered his lips as Jenny walked back into the bullpen, stuffing her Emory College t-shirt into her bag and balancing on chunky, tacky candy-apple red platforms.

She rolled her eyes, uncomfortable in the tight, half-calf leather pants that were part of her costume for the night. She felt like she was in the final scene of _Grease_, except her blouse was a cotton, crocheted crop-top little number that screamed _trailer park_. She kicked her bag behind her desk and shrugged a little.

"You can see my midriff," she pointed out, splaying her hand over her stomach and flicking the fake belly-button ring she'd clipped on. "Don't look gift horses in the mouth, eh?"

Burley gave her a good-natured grin and Gibbs glanced over, his eyes falling to the hand she had spread across her bare abdomen. He cleared his throat bluntly, as if forcing their attention back to the impending job, and she schooled her features, straightening her shoulders.

"Does it do the trick?" she asked her boss narrowly.

"It'll work," he said vaguely. He didn't like how she looked in it at all, but that was to be attributed to the fact that he didn't like other men looking at her, and he didn't like sticking women in threatening situations.

"Oh, well, look at that," Jenny said primly, giving Burley a superior look. "I got the Gibbs seal of approval."

"Nah, that's when he starts callin' you by your first name."

Jenny couldn't help it; she snorted, smirking slightly, as a ragged, husky memory came back to her and echoed in her ears: _Slow Down. Jen. _Burley didn't seem to notice and looked at Gibbs as he stood up, ready to go.

"Ain't that right, Boss?"

"That's right, Steve," Gibbs deadpanned pointedly, holding up the keys and jingling them. He disappeared towards the elevator without a word, and Jenny looked gleefully at Burley and laughed.

"He just made a joke," Burley said under his breath, falling into step beside Jenny and looking perplexed. "What the _hell's_ that about?"

Jenny shrugged and lifted her eyebrow seriously at Burley, giving the man a taste of his own medicine.

"Maybe he's sleeping with Decker," she said coolly, and then stepped onto the elevator.

Burley looked taken aback, and then sheepish—he got the point. She was showing him how irritating it was to her to be constantly told the explanation was that she must be sleeping with Gibbs, no matter how much it made sense to the men.

Jenny leaned casually against the back wall of the elevator as the doors slid shut smoothly, this time letting Burley and Gibbs be the ones to stand in silence next to each other.

* * *

It was hotter this night than it had been last time, and she was regretting the choice of leather pants. It was a choice that was stupid in all ways but one: she'd been aiming to prevent a repeat of last time's post-op easy-access sexual activity. It was a choice she'd made to remove temptation from the both of them, though this time around, the op was slightly different.

Burley was stationed protectively on the roofs somewhere. Gibbs was working with Detective Havisham—Rachel—because Chief Earl, it ended up, was being held for investigation. Decker had thought he might be the leak. Decker was running tech, and Jenny was on the streets again, wired up, expected to meet up with Kinky Krissy and actively goad Heller.

She had already been leaning against a fire hydrant in a dirty back alley pretending to smoke a cigarette for an hour. Someone was prowling the streets looking for evidence, and Havisham was occasionally in her ear.

"Krissy doesn't know you're a cop," Havisham had told her. "She really will be startled by what's going on. You bluff until you get something."

Jenny was bored, and she was on edge. She was supposed to find out the name of a dealer by pretending she already knew the name. It was twisted. Burley thought it was fun. Gibbs was silent and brooding about the whole thing, like he knew something. He'd barely said a word as they set up.

Jenny crossed her legs, frowning.

Leather pants really were the _worst_ idea.

"You know I thought I chased you away from my turf, honey."

Jenny straightened up at the sound of the voice and stood, turning with a defensive stance as Krissy appeared from the shadows. Dressed to the hooker nines in fishnets, stiletto combat boots, and a short, barely there pink mini-dress, she glared at Jenny with panicky, fierce eyes.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Sugah," Jenny crooned.

Krissy slapped the cigarette from Jenny's hand and ground it into the concrete. She placed her hands on her hips and stood in front of Jenny haughtily, looking mean and formidable. Her long, fake red nails looked dangerous in the dim alley lighting.

"I can't afford to share my streets with every sassy l'il southern belle who thought she could make it in the big city," Krissy growled. "Get your pussy off my property."

"I'll put my pussy where I'm paid to put it," Jenny fired back. She smiled sarcastically and then puckered her lips. "You gonna cough up some cash, sweet cheeks?" Jenny rubbed her thumb and forefingers together suggestively.

"You really are itchin' for trouble you redneck bitch."

"Ain't nobody itchin' for trouble, just itchin' for love," Jenny laid on her southern accent thick. Krissy's cheeks flushed and she held up a finger, lowering her voice.

"Listen _sugar_," she snapped. "I told you once, there's bad blood in this area. Get out before you get mixed up with the wrong kinda man."

Jenny whistled mockingly and grabbed Kinky Krissy's finger, pushing it out of her face.

"That's just who I'm lookin' for," she hissed coolly. "The wrong kinda man, if ya get my drift."

Krissy yanked back, looking confused and suspicious—and a little scared.

"You don't know what you're talking about, honey."

"Heller," Jenny said, dropping the bomb. "I sure as hell know who I'm lookin' for, little darlin'," Jenny twanged.

"Heller didn't tell me no one was gonna be meetin' with us," Krissy squealed under her breath, backing up. "He didn't tell me."

"He ain't told you because he doesn't know," Jenny snapped. "I ain't never met Heller, I just gotta have a word with him," the redhead snarled, as if angry. "The last cut I got from my guy wasn't good, and I beat Heller's name outta the dog."

"He don't deal bad cuts," Krissy said furiously, jumping to the defense. "And nobody deals if it ain't through Heller, so you tellin' me some devil dog's been turnin' profit?"

Jenny smirked, and there they stood, two hookers—one the real deal, and one a cop, waiting for a drug dealer with some explaining to do.

* * *

Brix Heller was tall, probably taller than Gibbs. He was chunky in the muscle department, he had a square head, and he had cropped, pale yellow hair that set off a pair of muddy green eyes—hazel eyes—flawlessly. He looked like a hunk from a bad porno, and he chewed tobacco. Jenny was careful to hide her distaste as he approached; Krissy hunched forward as if trying to appear smaller and whimpered quietly, obviously scared.

Heller's voice wasn't as deep as Jenny expected, but it was quiet, almost snake-like.

"Didn't know you had friends to invite to private parties, Krissy," Heller said silkily, his muddy eyes fixed on Jenny. His gaze was utterly unreadable, and Jenny was careful to keep her face as guarded as possible.

"I invited mahself and she ain't my friend," she trilled brazenly, cocking her hip and placing her hand on it sassily.

Krissy leapt towards Heller, a pleading look in her eye.

"I don't got nothin' to do with this girl, Brix, you gotta believe me," she snapped, clinging to his arm.

Jenny reached out and snatched at Krissy, pulling her back roughly and pushing her aside to assert some authority. The redhead tossed her teased hair and shot Heller a blazing look, careful to pretend she had no idea she was dealing with.

"I'm lookin' for you, sugah," she said icily. "One of your pups sold me a bad cut, and I ain't much pleased with that it put me through."

Heller smiled very placidly, a peaceful, mildly amused look on his lips.

"Baby, my _pups_ don't sell to sluts."

"How do you explain this bitch?" Jenny asked, thrusting her hand at Krissy. Heller didn't answer, just smiled that placid, frightening smile, and then Jenny had to think fast to keep the conversation hot. She tossed her head again, stepping closer and turning on the charm as if she were going to turn a trick. "Honey, don't you know I can do all she can and more?" she asked smoothly.

Heller put his hand on her cheek and popped her jaw in a rough little slap and, startled, Jenny stumbled back.

"I am loyal to my own, my lady," he said in a frighteningly gallant manner.

Jenny set her jaw, her cheeks flaming at the rough treatment. She threw her pointer finger into Heller's face.

"Look here, asshole," she started. "You tell me what my guy's real name is—not his call sign bullshit—or I'll make trouble, I go to the cops—_ow_—" Jenny broke off with a real shriek of pain and stopped talking.

Her earpiece crackled and she heard Gibbs demanding someone give him a report.

Heller broke her finger. He grabbed it, broke it effortlessly, and pushed her hand into her chest, his brow rising just a little lazily.

"Canine warned me about you," he said in a hiss, stepping forward. He clicked his tongue and, as she tried to fight through the searing pain in her finger, Jenny registered that _canine_ could very well be a code name for his Metro contact; canine: K-9.

Heller puckered his lips and grabbed Krissy, pulling her toward him with a soothing hand.

"There, there, princess," he crooned sarcastically. "You've just let them worm another cop into my midst," he said.

Krissy looked caught off guard and startled, and turned to leap at Jenny.

"_Wha_—you're a cop?" she shouted, but Heller yanked her back, wrapped in a hug—no, it wasn't a hug, Jenny realized. She flinched and brought her hand up to block her vision; Heller snapped Krissy's neck and let her body fall to the ground, lifeless.

Gibbs was talking in her ear, and so was Rachel, and then Decker was swearing loudly.

"Mercy me," Jenny drawled, using the code phrase to signify that she needed back up. She swallowed hard, hoping Burley was somewhere on the roof.

"Your friends aren't here for you," Heller said in his evil, kindly. "My dear Rachel made sure of that."

_Havisham was the leak?_

Heller grabbed Jenny. In a panicked, really laughable reference to one of her favorite Broadway musicals, her hand shot up to the level of her eyes and she managed to block him from getting a good grip on her throat—but only for a moment; he hit her injured finger and she yelped; he got his hands around the slim column of her throat.

Now she couldn't scream.

She couldn't breathe.

His lips were moving against her ear; she struggled with the strength she was slowly losing to spots before her eyes.

"I was getting tired of coddling Kinky Krissy anyway," he murmured silkily. "I'm sorry your clever little game to root out the devil dog in league with me failed so miserably, but it is so much fun for me to make an example of you do strike fear into the hearts of your merry sailor men."

Jenny coughed, barely even hearing it. The black spots were getting bigger. She thought her chest was going to explode, or her lungs were going to catch fire—she needed air, she couldn't breathe—

—a shot rang out, and she felt a loosening—she tried to gasp for breath but she couldn't; _had he broken her throat_?

Another shot rang out and Heller let her go; she collapsed to her hands and knees and then her head and the ground both spun and everything went black.

* * *

When she came to, police lights had lit up the alley; there was yellow crime scene tape galore. The dark crevices of Columbia Heights had been turned into a place crawling with evidence personnel and cops; she was perched on a stretcher, with a paramedic holding an oxygen mask towards her temptingly.

She took it gratefully and inhaled, letting her eyes fall closed. Moving her head hurt, and she flinched; someone was wrapping up her finger and setting it. She opened her eyes and jumped a little. Gibbs was standing right in front of her, an angry look in his eyes, his hands in his pockets. He glared at the paramedic helping her with her mask and the young guy scampered, leaving Gibbs to hold the plastic to her nose gently.

She removed it when she'd had her fill.

"Havisham is the leak," she tried to say, but all that came out was a quiet whispering, and the squeak of her managing to force out the hard 'k' sound. The baffled look on her face must have amused him; Gibbs snorted.

He touched is neck, nodding at her.

"Your vocal cords are recovering," he said gruffly. "Give it a minute."

She frowned and held the mask back to her lips. Gibbs stepped forward after a moment and tilted her chin up, examining her neck. He reached out and put his fingers gently on her skin, pressing a little; she winced. He looked at her and massaged gently. She swallowed painfully, tears springing to her eyes, and he kept massaging for a minute, only pausing when he was satisfied.

"Speak," he said, smirking a little.

"What happened?" she asked.

She managed the sound, but she sounded like she had a horrid case of emphysema.

"Burley took out Heller," Gibbs answered. "Fired a shot to startle him, then when Heller dropped you, Burley made the kill shot from the roof."

"Heller said," Jenny began, struggling. She winced. "He said Rachel—"

Gibbs nodded.

"Havisham didn't know I had Burley on the roof," he said coldly. "I thought it was her," he added darkly.

Jenny didn't have the strength to ask how he knew.

"She gave Decker false instructions to the site, or we'd have interfered sooner," Gibbs muttered, reaching up to rub his jaw. He noticed he was still holding her oxygen and held it out. "You need this."

She shook her head and pushed it away.

The paramedic dealing with her hand finished up and smiled at her, stepping up to talk to her.

"It's a really clean break, you'll be fine in a few weeks. Is that your trigger finger?"

She shook her head in the negative, attempting to conserve her voice.

The paramedic nodded.

"Rest your vocal cords. You'll have some trouble swallowing, you'll be sore, you may be nauseous and have headaches for a few days," he listed frankly. "You didn't hit your head too hard when you hit the concrete. I'm confident saying you don't have a concussion but, all the same," the medic hesitated. "Is there someone at your house who can be there just in case something happens?"

"She's got a housekeeper," Decker said with a rogue grin, passing by with a pair of gloves. He wriggled his eyebrows at Shepard and continued on his way, snickering.

Jenny shook her head. She mustered her speaking strength.

"Noemi is out of town."

The paramedic frowned, but shrugged hesitantly.

"Like I said, you're probably clear. Just get some rest."

"I'll take her home," Gibbs said gruffly, looking at her intently.

The paramedic nodded, saying something about that being a good idea before going off to help clean up. Jenny narrowed her eyes at Gibbs, caught off guard by the offer. She didn't know what to say, so she lifted the mask back to her mouth and took a deep breath, stunned by how much the generous intake of breath stung.

* * *

"Gibbs," she said.

She rolled her eyes when he smirked at the sound of her raspy, comical, damaged voice. She rested her broken finger on her knee and looked over at him from the passenger seat.

"My car is at the Navy Yard," she said, choosing to whisper—perhaps whispering would come out easier than normal speech. She was pressed as far away from him as she could be; she was still wearing her flashy, revealing hooker outfit.

"It'll be there tomorrow," he said gruffly.

She parted her lips to respond, but changed her mind. Did he plan on staying the night at her house? Driving her to work tomorrow? Or was he going to pick her up in the morning, send Miller to do it? Her head throbbed, like the medic had warned it would.

She didn't need Jethro confusing her while she was disoriented.

_Jethro_. When did he get promoted to a mental first-name basis?

They should just return to the office; it had to be past three in the morning by now and there was almost no point in her trying to get some sleep. Her lips compressed in a disgruntled line as she leaned her head against the window and stared, watching in vague resentment as he parked across from her brownstone.

She got out of the car and started to the house immediately, flinching as she heard him lock the door and follow her stoically. Her porch light popped on and she turned to him at the door, feeling dizzy. She blinked a few times, but didn't catch her bearings, and stumbled.

He took her arm and guided her inside, shutting her door.

"Jenny?" he asked gruffly. She blinked, the moment gone, and wrinkled her nose.

"Being strangled looks so glamorous in movies," she said hoarsely, indicating her throat. "No one ever has to _recover_."

Gibbs looked mildly amused. He let go of her arm and narrowed his eyes at her cheek.

"Did Heller hit you?"

She shrugged.

"Not any harder than a head slap, I bet," she answered smugly.

Gibbs didn't look amused; he brooded. She swallowed, wincing again, and stepped back, turning some lights on and looking around, trying to decide what to do. She folded her arms and looked at him sharply.

"I'm home," she said, her throat hurting as she spoke. "You can go."

"You could have a concussion," he said, unconvinced. "I'll stay."

Her spine tingled at the thought. The only other bedroom in the house was cluttered with her boxes, still not presentable. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

"I don't," she said firmly. "Go, Gibbs," she insisted. She parted her lips hesitantly. "She'll worry about you," she said, choosing not to use the word _wife_ or the _wife's_ name.

Gibbs shrugged.

"She doesn't care," he muttered, almost to himself.

It was a lie. He knew Diane cared about him. She knew he would be working the night, though. She'd be asleep, and up for work in four hours, anyway. He gave Jenny a gruff look, legitimately concerned for her well-being.

"I'll stay, Jen," he said firmly.

She gave him a hopeless look and quirked an eyebrow, a look flashing through her green eyes.

"You really think that's a good idea?" she asked bluntly; honestly.

It was the first clear-cut mention that they were balancing on a dangerous line; some would say they had already crossed that line, but both of them were too morally grey to admit to that. Her question hung in the air, rhetorical, and she finally gestured weakly to the kitchen.

"Have a drink," she said. "I'm going to shower."

She vaguely wondered if he would take it as an invitation to join her, and pushed the thought away. She knew he wouldn't. She was hurt, and it had been a tiring night. It wasn't like the last time. He was honestly concerned; he was taking care of his people.

She slipped past him and retreated to the safety of her bathroom, leaving him to his own devices in her kitchen.

* * *

In true Gibbs fashion, he figured out how to work her espresso machine and made coffee. He didn't care that it was the middle of the night. He never really slept anyway; he hadn't slept well since nineteen ninety-one.

He sat at Shepard's neatly kept, mahogany kitchen table sipping the hot brew in silence, still tense from the events of the night. Burley had been proud of his shot—as he had a right to be—but it was still stressful to deal with a close call with an agent, and in the back of his mind he knew this was twice as bad for him because Shepard was a woman, and she was a woman he was, for lack of a better word, _involved_ with.

The vague, bluish-purple bruises on her neck were unpleasant for him to look at.

He looked up at the sound of water shutting off and checked his watch. He assumed she'd return to let him know she hadn't killed herself in the shower, but when he sat in the kitchen and she didn't appear for the next twenty minutes, he finished his coffee and went up the stairs, seeking out the bedroom.

The first he tried was full of boxes—he spotted a Georgia bulldog stuffed animal on the floor—and the second he came to was cracked slightly. He knocked, received no answer, knocked louder, and poked the door open a little.

"Jenny," he called gruffly.

"What?" her voice was muffled.

"You decent?"

She said something, but all he heard was coughing, so he went in. She was just coming out of the bathroom, her brow furrowed. Her hair was a wet and hanging in damp, knotted clumps over her shoulders. She was wearing a loose, paint-splattered Georgetown t-shirt. It was big on her, but it wasn't long enough to hide the fact that she only had on a pair of plain cotton panties.

She gave him an unabashed look, as if she knew it was useless to pretend they were embarrassed by her state of undress. How could they, when he'd had his fingers inside her, and she'd had his semen in her hair?

"What?" she asked again, her voice a little better.

He lifted his brows and gave her a look.

"Just checking to see if you drowned," he said seriously.

She held her hands out dramatically and smirked.

"Alive and dry," she answered. "I appreciate your concern," she added, a touch of sarcasm in her tone. She turned her bathroom light off and walked to her bed, massaging her throat gently. She coughed, her nose wrinkling up with distaste, and crawled into her blankets, curling up.

He swallowed, finding the action painful in its own way, and tried not to let his gaze linger on how good she looked undressed like that, and how silky and soft her hair would probably feel if he could run his hands through it roughly right now.

"Flip my light off, would you?" she asked, her voice hoarse again. "I don't care where you sleep, but there are boxes all over the bed in the other room," she warned tiredly.

He wanted badly to take that as an invitation, to crawl into bed next to her even if it was only to touch and to sleep. He didn't; he chose not to put her in that position. He was her superior, he was married, and he hadn't gone that far with rationalization yet. He backed up and turned off her light, shrouding her barely dressed form in darkness—though it was burned into his mind's eye.

"I'll be in your study," he said gruffly.

* * *

Jenny checked herself out critically in the visor mirror of Gibbs' federal sedan, her fingers gingerly running over the garish bruises that snaked maliciously around her throat. The long, slender purple-blue marks branched over her skin too obviously for make-up to help, and she'd decided to forgo face-cake altogether because of it.

The redhead frowned vainly and pressed curiously; yes, she was still sore. She lifted her hands and lined her fingers up with Heller's grip marks, looking at her reflection as she mimicked strangling herself, just analyzing the bruises.

Gibbs got into the driver's seat next to her and scowled, his eyes narrowing. She met his glare in the mirror and he reached into his pocket for his keys, throwing his beeper onto the dashboard carelessly.

"Quit," he said gruffly, nodding a little at her.

"'_Quit'_?" she quoted back, arching a brow. "Quit what?"

"Aggravating your neck," he said under his breath.

"Quit aggravating me," she fired back good-naturedly. She removed her hands, swallowed carefully, and closed the visor, settling back into her seat and slipping the safety belt on. She glanced over at Gibbs while he found the key to the government car, noting his wrinkled clothing, roughed-up hair, and generally sleepless look.

She wasn't sure if he'd actually slept in the study or if he'd just sat moodily at the kitchen table all night. She'd found him at the kitchen table this morning, drinking coffee, and reading her newspaper. They hadn't said much to each other; she had carried on her morning routine as if he wasn't there—except she'd worn a robe to get her breakfast, instead of walking around naked.

Gibbs pulled away from her brownstone and she stared out the front window, content not to say anything. That was the beauty of Gibbs; one never had to say anything, and it was never an awkward occurrence. It was normal—and Jenny happened to like it. She smiled a little, and was enjoying the mild morning sun through the glass window when his beeper went off shrilly.

She picked it up easily—as it was closer to her—and checked the number. She held it out so he could glance at it. He grunted and she looked over; he was shaking his head stiffly, indicating he didn't need it. Jenny checked the number again.

"Who is that?" she asked, without using her common sense.

He didn't look at her. Jenny pursed her lips, about to ask if it were one of the agents she didn't know as well, and then it clicked that it must be his wife—or his home number—and she bit her lip, leaning forward the replace the beeper.

It went off again, and this time Gibbs' head snapped towards her.

"Dammit," she heard him swear, but before he could reach for the car phone and resign himself to calling Diane, Jenny noticed something.

"Wait," Jenny stalled. She narrowed her eyes. "This time it's Stan."

Gibbs paused, looking back towards the road, nodding curtly. He started to reach for the car phone again but then changed his mind.

"Call 'im," he ordered. "Tell him to go ahead and bring Havisham to interrogation for questioning."

Jenny didn't move, and when she failed to heed his command, Gibbs shot her a glare, about to snap at her. She shook her head.

"He paged you," she said tensely. "_You_ have to answer."

"You've got two free hands," Gibbs retorted, rolling his eyes.

"Gibbs," she said, pausing. "Burley doesn't need to know we're together, he'll think—" she broke off, and just frowned at her boss. Surely he wasn't that dense? She waited a moment, and then the penny dropped—Gibbs picked up the phone, but Jenny dialed the number so he wouldn't end up killing them in a traffic accident.

His conversation with Stan was short and to the point, and Jenny was quiet the whole time. When Gibbs hung up, she frowned and leaned back against the seat, rolling her eyes.

"When is NCIS going to get the funds to issue each agent a cell phone?" she grumbled, annoyed at the agency's lagging behind other federal organizations. She didn't expect Gibbs to answer her, but what he actually said surprised her so much—

"What's a cell phone?"

—that she burst into a fit of unladylike, painful giggles. Unladylike, because she slid down in the seat a little and put her hand on her stomach, hunching over a little, and painful because it hurt the sore muscles in her neck to laugh.

Gibbs seemed put off by the laughter.

"What?" he snapped.

"Gibbs, are you serious?" she asked, straightening up and composing herself. She cocked her eyebrow again and tilted her head, waiting impatiently. He kept silent for a moment, and she had her answer. She bit her lip to hold back a mocking grin and tried to school her features. "You really don't know what a cell phone is?"

"You use it in a jail cell?" Gibbs asked sarcastically, shooting her a glare.

Her lips fell open slightly as she forced herself to hold back more peals of laughter. She took a deep breath and let it out, giving him a very serious, innocent look. His nostrils flared; it was the first time Jenny had ever seen Gibbs look a little embarrassed.

"It's a portable phone," she explained lightly. "It's—you carry it with you, it uses signals and a charge to communicate."

"Like a walkie-talkie," Gibbs grunted.

"Son of a bitch, Jethro, were you born in the Jurassic era?"

"Well, I wasn't in pre-school ten years ago," he fired back pointedly, giving her a superior look.

She snapped her finger and pointed at him teasingly.

"Whoa, boy," she admonished. "_High_ school," she corrected primly. He snorted derisively and she grinned, shaking her head. "You need to orient yourself with the decade you're living in," she drawled.

"It's like a mobile."

"Huh?"

"Cell phone. Like a mobile phone."

"Jethro," Jenny said, pausing for effect. She looked at him as if he had lost his damn mind. "_It's the same thing_."

Gibbs kept looking ahead. She raised her eyebrow, unsure if he'd respond, and then he glanced over at her with a curious, sly spark in his blue eyes—the corner of his mouth twitched up just slightly and her eyes widened; she let out a laugh of disbelief.

"You were screwing with me?" she demanded, her eyes dancing. "Jesus," she swore, shaking her head. She smiled, pursing her lips and just staring ahead, feeling like she'd lost a game. She glanced over at him again. "Why the hell?" she asked primly.

He shrugged.

"I'm funny," he deadpanned.

She laughed.

It certainly appeared that he could be.

The smile stuck on her lips and she let out a low, approving whistle as he turned towards the Navy yard, drawing her foot up and propping it on the dashboard. She tapped her fingers on her knee, raising her brows.

"Who's interrogating Havisham?" she asked mildly.

He snorted, and the next words out of his mouth caught her off guard:

"You are."

* * *

Jenny assumed she was slated to interrogate Rachel Havisham because Havisham's treachery was the reason Jenny had come close to death by strangulation in the alley last night. Regardless of why she was going it, Jenny was eager for the opportunity and appropriately apprehensive, though she was careful to conceal that. She had been at NCIS for nearly 5 months now, and interrogation was the only thing she had not been trusted to do alone yet.

Gibbs was _very_ territorial about interrogation.

The most unnerving part of this was not staring Rachel Havisham in her turncoat eyes, but knowing that Gibbs, Burley, and Decker were all intently observing her through the glass behind her.

Jenny cleared her throat and took a swig of water from a bottle on the table, making a show of clearing her throat again. Havisham was looking at the table in front of her; her eyes occasionally flicked up to linger on the bruises on Jenny's neck, and Jenny noted that she could use her injuries to break Havisham.

So she spent a few minutes getting her papers together and gingerly wincing or swallowing, putting effort into pretending she was in pain. She looked up, touched her marred neck lightly, and then began to speak.

"Pip," she said hoarsely, using the woman's literary nickname for familiarity. Jenny's voice was purposely hoarse; talking had actually gotten easier, but she chose to pretend she was having trouble. Jenny waited a moment, and when Havisham did not look up, the redhead sighed heavily. "Pip, the least you could do is look at me."

That did it.

The guilty, defeated brown eyes of the other woman lifted, and she looked at Jenny, resigned. Her mouth was a thin, compressed line, her cheeks were pale, and she stayed silent.

"Brix Heller," Jenny continued in her raspy voice, "is dead, thanks to Agent Burley—I know you were shocked to find Stan on the rooftops, but you must admit, it was a hell of a shot," Jenny smiled sarcastically.

Havisham barely reacted. She bit the inside of her cheek, narrowing her eyes slightly. Her eyelashes twitched.

"Kristina Kink is also dead, which is a pity for your precinct, considering the wealth of tip-offs she provided," Jenny said. She folded her hands in front of her on the table and tilted her head, looking at Havisham intently.

Rachel Havisham lifted her eyes to the ceiling, looking off and away.

Jenny reached up and touched her neck, wincing and rubbing very lightly again.

"That leaves you, Pip," she said, shrugging. "That leaves _you_."

"That leaves me where?" Havisham asked, her eyes snapping back on Jenny's. "Chief Earl is the leak. This thing just leaves me with the mark of an embarrassing case on my record."

Jenny stopped rubbing her neck, feigning surprise. She hadn't really expected Havisham to deny that she was the leak, considering they all knew it to be true, but she thought it was a possibility.

"Jeremy Earl has been cleared of suspected wrongdoing," Jenny replied. "A little inconvenient for you, of course, but it's nothing compared to the fact that Heller mentioned you by name while he was trying to murder me," she continued pleasantly.

She cringed, implying that smiling hurt her muscles. Jenny milked her injury again, rubbing her throat, and then coughed once, reaching for her water. She let Havisham sit a moment before going on.

"As I said, you're the only link to the Marines involved in Heller's little drug project," Jenny said, opening a notebook. She pulled out a pen and clicked it in an obnoxious, business-like way. "I am going to need you to tell me the names of Heller's Marine counterpart, and the enlisted go-between."

Havisham shook her head.

"I don't know," she said unconvincingly. "I don't know, Shepard, I'm not the leak."

"This is going to get tiresome," Jenny sighed, leaning back. She let her shoulder slump and, once again, made a show of swallowing painfully. "Pip, you're already in enough trouble. Don't you think your puppeteers should have to take some blame?

"I'm not—I wasn't—a puppet—" Havisham burst out, trying to correct herself, failing, and flushing.

"I see. Then I'm to understand you acted as an asset to a drug ring of your own free will?"

Havisham chewed on her lip. She shook her head, agitated, and then looked away, frowning.

"Look, I needed the money," she muttered.

"A police salary certainly isn't a fortune," Jenny patronized a little sarcastically.

"You don't get it," Havisham snapped. "I got a sick kid," she mumbled, putting her hand on the metal table and splaying her fingers out tensely. "Medical bills _are_ a fortune," she snarled.

Jenny coughed and took another drink of water.

"The cost adds up to four or five lives, apparently," she rasped.

"A drug dealer," scoffed Havisham.

"An innocent young woman."

"Innocent? Krissy's a hooker!"

"Was," Jenny corrected coldly. "_Was_ a hooker. Does that maker her less of a human, then?" Before Havisham could protest, scorn, or backpedal, Jenny went on: "Poor Krissy the hooker. A woman who did something immoral in order to survive," she sighed, distinctly mockingly.

Jenny massaged her throat again and coughed.

"Sound familiar, Pip?"

Havisham slammed her hand on the table, her cheeks flushing.

"My son has cancer, he has _cancer_!" she shouted. "He's only six!" she held up her fingers. Her hand shook.

"No need to get violent," Jenny reprimanded sarcastically.

It bothered her to act so cold, though. Her initial instinct was to melt, to sympathize, to try and understand the rationale behind a situation that was, like so many others, shades of grey rather than black and white. She couldn't do that; she knew that damn well. Gibbs would have a fit if she went 'female' on him in here.

Havisham covered her mouth, her eyes watering.

"The money Heller paid me to keep the cops off his back?" she said aggressively. "It was a lot. It covered an _entire_ round of chemo," she went on heatedly. Her eyes flashed desperately. "I didn't want Krissy to die, I didn't want anyone dead," she snapped. "But some trashy hooker for the life of my _son_? I'd make that trade without batting an eyelid. I don't care about anyone but Levi."

Jenny silently touched her neck again, going over her options in her head. She couldn't offer Havisham a deal. Gibbs hadn't given her that authority—and Gibbs didn't have that authority unless a DC prosecutor gave it to him. They had Havisham's confirmation that she was the leak.

"Drugs destroy lives," Jenny said quietly. "Drugs are evil, Pip."

"Drugs are amoral," Havisham snapped. "People are evil."

Jenny smiled lightly. It was a genuine shame that Havisham had turned out to be one of the 'bad guys'; she would otherwise no doubt be a woman Jenny could count among her friends.

The redhead leaned forward and spread her hands out, palms up, on the table in front of her.

"The way you feel about your son—"

"You can't even comprehend how I feel about my son," hissed Havisham.

"The way you feel about your son," Jenny repeated, raising her voice, "is the way Kristina Kink's parents feel about her. It's the way the children of the men and women who could end up dead as a result of a continuing drug ring feel. You were desperate to keep from feeling the pain of losing your son," Jenny said slowly, narrowing her eyes aggressively. "Cancer isn't your fault. It's a force of nature. Mutated cells have to answer to it if your son dies. But if your cohorts kill a father? Or a mother? Or cause the death of a child? _You_ have to answer."

Jenny swallowed, winced, and glared steadily at Havisham.

"Do you want to answer for causing the pain you are so _righteously_ trying to prevent yourself from feeling?"

Jenny massaged her neck.

Havisham looked away, biting her lip again. She reached up shakily and pushed her hair behind her hear, her eyes narrow and bitter. Her mouth trembled and she kept shaking her head, as if ordering herself not to answer. She finally looked back at Jenny.

"I need a deal," she capitulated heavily. "I need a deal," she repeated.

Jenny narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and considered her choices. There was probably no chance Gibbs would deal—but it would ultimately be up to Metro, and she doubted Chief Earl or Colter would feel generous to allow one to be offered. She pressed her palm into her neck and then lifted her shoulders.

"I can't deal," Jenny said bluntly; honestly. "That's up to your people," she reminded Havisham dryly. "I work for the Navy. I need Navy names."

It looked for a moment like Havisham would fight back and refuse, but Jenny pointedly coughed, winced, made a big deal out of her injury, etc.—and Havisham shook her head violently, apparently giving up.

"Brett Dorset and Roscoe Peres."

Jenny neatly wrote down the two names. She laid down her pen and turned in her seat, staring triumphantly through the glass at the men she knew were watching her. She touched her throat smugly, and grinned.

* * *

References: NCIS Season 2 Episode "_See No Evil_" (Kate: How can you drink coffee when it's 100 degrees? Gibbs: Keeps me cool)_._ NCIS Season 2 Episode _"Conspiracy Theory"_ (DiNozzo mimics Kate in a wet t-shirt contest; Gibbs tells him he'll kick his ass)_ There's Something About Mary_ (if you can point out just how a very vulgar scene in that move translates to being referenced in the title of this chapter, I love you), _When Harry Met Sally_ (fake orgasms for the win?),_ The Phantom of the Opera_ (hand at the level of your eyes).

_Feedback__ is appreciated!  
__-Alexandra_


	9. Maryland

_A/N: I think it's fairly safe to safe this is what we've been building up to. If you know what I mean. _

_I'm going to reiterate the rating at this point; I know it's been smutty (and fairly bluntly graphic) but I still want to do you the courtesy of mentioning that this is rated **M** and it does_ explicitly_ live up to that rating. _

_"Are you thinking of me when you fuck her?" -Alanis Morissette; 'You Oughta Know.' [Playlist]_

* * *

_Chapter Eight: Maryland_

Diane leaned over the back of the living room couch and presented her—_estranged_?—husband with a brightly coloured, cartoonish Hallmark card, waving it a little obnoxiously in his face.

The action successfully distracted him from the baseball game he was watching and he looked up, narrowing his eyes. He took the card silently, confused for a moment, and glared at it. Diane then dangled a Sharpie pen in his face, which he ignored while he examined the frilly card. He recognized the children's storybook character Snow White and made the educated assumption that this card was not intended for him.

"What's this?" he asked, tilting his head back to look at her.

"Abigail's birthday card," Diane answered coolly. "Sign it, please," she directed, tapping his temple with the Sharpie. He snatched it from her to make her stop with the irritating tapping and dangling, and uncapped it, reading the generic message inside, and studying Diane's loopy, swirly handwriting.

He tilted his head, holding the cap in his mouth, and looked back at her.

"You want me to sign it 'Uncle Leroy'?" he asked, grinning a little. She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"Right, like she'd even know what it means to have an 'Uncle'," Diane muttered, poking his shoulder shortly. "Just sign your name, her parents will tell her you're my husband."

Gibbs nodded and added his name neatly to the Disney birthday card. As an afterthought, he drew a smiley face and nonchalantly handed the card back. She approved his work and waltzed back towards the kitchen; Gibbs heard her shuffling for the envelope.

"How old is she now?" he asked.

"Seven," Diane answered, her voice muffled. "Well, six, she'll be seven on the twentieth," she corrected.

"Good age," Gibbs remarked without thinking it through.

"Is it?" Diane asked, snorting. "Amanda says all she does is talk back."

Gibbs smirked to himself and took a drink of his beer. He didn't say anything else, busy thinking about the trouble Kelly had caused them when she'd figured out talking back to Shannon would make her so _mad_ she'd _order_ Kelly to report to her father—and Gibbs would just let her off the hook.

Diane left the house, probably to mail the card, and when she came back in, he heard her messing around in the kitchen again.

"Hey," he said, raising his voice. "Come watch the game."

"I'm busy," she answered curtly.

"Doin' _what_, it's Saturday afternoon," he scoffed.

"I'm building a boat," she answered sarcastically.

He blinked, and looked towards the kitchen, raising an eyebrow. Gibbs laughed, even if he knew he was being subtly snapped at.

"Diane," he whined. "I'm being _cordial_," he snorted, repeating something she'd yelled at him a week or so ago.

"Well, how thoughtful of you," she retorted sarcastically. "I hate the Yankees," she added, making another excuse.

"Me too, why do you think I'm watchin'?" he answered. Diane came into the living room, her arms folded, and he gestured at the television with a wicked smirk on his face. "Yankees are getting creamed."

She looked at the score and sat down on the opposite side of the couch, crossing her legs primly and sitting stiffly without looking at him. He frowned and rolled his eyes, taking his feet off the coffee table and leaning forward on his knees. He took a swig of beer, watched the game until the next commercial, and then looked at her intently.

"If you're pissed at me, why'd you want me to sign Abigail's card?" he asked.

She bit her lip.

"Honestly?" she asked, looking away from the commercial after she spoke the word. "I don't need Rusty and Amanda to know how stupid I am."

He stared at her.

"You'd be stupid if I didn't sign the damn card?" he asked skeptically.

"I've spent enough time assuring them that this isn't an unhealthy marriage that it's become a point of pride to keep up that façade," she retorted snidely.

"You're being passive-aggressive," Gibbs growled.

"I'm honored that you noticed."

He grit his teeth and looked down at the beer he was holding. It was half-empty, and wasn't exactly ice cold anymore. He'd chosen to remain home this weekend; his team didn't have the weekend shift, and though he usually worked the weekend anyway, something had stopped him.

It was probably guilt, but he didn't question it that much.

He set his jaw and looked at her again, waiting until his piercing glare induced her to look back at him, unable to continue pretending he wasn't staring.

"Do you want me to keep noticing?" he asked dully. "Or you want to call a lawyer?"

Her eyes flickered, and he knew he'd called her bluff. He hadn't really meant to—and he felt distinctly underhanded for mentioning—technically threatening—a divorce. He had enough fights with Diane to know that she didn't want that; she considered it failure, and Diane did _not_ like to fail.

"Are you asking me for a divorce?" she hissed.

"You want one?" he fired back.

She shook her head at him in disbelief.

"Would you even notice if I was gone, Leroy?" she asked quietly.

He looked at her hard, thinking about it.

"Yes," he answered seriously.

She looked surprised by his answer. He shrugged. There were a lot of reasons he would notice if Diane left. His house would be empty again. Her things would be gone. He'd have another alimony check to pay. His actions with Jenny would be a hell of a lot less illicit. Gibbs abandoned his beer to the coffee table and leaned back, stretching his arm over the couch.

She relaxed a little, and shifted—she leaned forward and took up his drink, set on finishing it for him. She sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"I might have to go to Seattle," she muttered tensely. "Rusty just keeps getting sicker."

"Did he get over the flu?"

"Yes, technically," she answered, leaning back. "His immune system is so compromised he'll never really get over it," she said. "He's got a lot of fluid in his lungs." Diane pushed her hair back. "It breaks my heart that Hannah is never really going to know her father."

"He could get better, Diane," Gibbs said.

"No," she answered curtly. "We're past that. We're a long way from AZT, Leroy," she said. "There's optimism, and then there's foolishness. We might get him for one more Christmas."

Gibbs squinted at her sympathetically. He hated that her brother had ended up with the short straw after all his hard work to quit the drugs and start a stable life and a good family. It couldn't be fixed, but it didn't hurt Diane any less. She'd spent so long hating Rusty for his choices and the way he abused heroin, but now he knew she just felt hopeless.

"Amanda invited us for Easter, but…" Diane trailed off, and snorted. She hadn't wanted to ask, and he wouldn't have even considered it. He would have used Shepard as an excuse_—'I'm breaking in a Probie'_. "I want to see him as much as I can."

"Then go to Seattle, Diane, you don't need permission," he told her.

She drank the rest of his beer and looked at him dully.

"You could come, Leroy," she said softly. "Cases slack off in the summer, you have plenty of leave time," she suggested.

"Your mother _hates_ me," Gibbs pointed out.

"She doesn't hate you," Diane retorted dryly. "She hates how I _act_ about you, and she can't hate me because she's my mother, so she directs it at you."

"Work," Gibbs grunted, making an excuse. And then, there it was, tumbling out of his mouth: "Shepard's too green to leave in the other guys' charge."

Diane didn't say anything. She put the empty beer bottle on the coffee table and then stretched out on the couch, laying her head on his thigh and turning towards the game, trying to ignore how much it bothered her that training Shepard seemed to be higher on his list of priorities than helping her deal with her brother's inevitable death. Gibbs slung his arm out over her body, his palm resting just on the curve of her hip, and relaxed a little, relieved to have kept things so civil.

The game returned, and she sat up a little, narrowing her eyes.

"Dammit, Leroy, I hate the _Phillies_, too, I don't care if the Yankees are getting creamed by _them_!"

"You hate _any_ team that isn't the Mariners!" he accused.

"I'm from _Seattle_!" she retorted proudly. She swung her legs off the couch and glared at him, her bangs falling in her eyes. "This was a trap, you're trying to get on my good side—" she broke off with a small shriek as he pulled her back towards him and wrapped his arms around her tightly, squeezing her side.

She curled up, ticklish, and giggled, trying to escape from him by beating his chest half-heartedly. He buried his mouth in her neck and laughed impishly, refusing to let her escape, and she burst into laughter, tilting her head up for a kiss and scooting over to sprawl herself over his lap.

He let her pull his lips down to hers, her nails pricking his skin gently with a confident grip, and smirked triumphantly, having succeeded in keeping her on the couch with him and lightening the mood enough to take his mind of his exploits with Shepard and the sorry state of his and Diane's floundering relationship.

As it turned out, that June Saturday when the Yankees played the Phillies was probably the last good day their marriage ever saw.

* * *

"Has Peres confessed yet?" Stan Burley asked through a mouthful of Mexican take-out, looking interestedly at his colleagues.

Decker snorted.

"Naw, no confession, but his wife's pretty eager to chuck him under the bus," he answered, grinning from behind a stack of paperwork that pertained to the Red Yarn Case—the case that had begun with a dead body and some contaminated evidence and then ended with a rogue cop, some corrupt Marines, and a semi-innocent sleepover.

Burley snickered.

"Well, all the info we've got on him says he was a real dick—hey, what d'you think Gibbs' wife would do if he got arrested? You think she'd stick up for him?"

"Hmmm," Decker thought, leaning back. He placed his hands behind his head and puckered his lips with mock interest. "Who'd be dumb enough to arrest Gibbs?" he asked.

"Good point," mused Burley, pointing a plastic fork at Decker and then using it to scrape some refried beans out of his burrito. He looked up gleefully. "What if Shepard arrested him, and Diane had to come bail him out? What d'you think _then_?"

"I think we'd be directing a porno," Decker answered, smirking wickedly.

"So, Jenny would be in a skimpy little Bad Cop outfit and Gibbs would—"

"Man, who _cares_ what Boss is wearing?"

"Right, yeah—and Diane would wear, like, what, a French Maid's outfit?"

"Nope, Naughty Nurse, she's a therapist—"

"You know, I personally think she'd wear your teeth as a victory necklace after she murdered you."

The sound of Shepard's voice surprised and terrified both men enough to send Burley's fork flying into the air and a few files sliding off of Decker's desk. Burley began choking on the food he'd had in his mouth and Decker hastily began trying to clean up his mess, his cheeks flushing. Smirking slightly at the hullabaloo she'd set in motion, Jenny continued coolly to her desk with her cup of iced coffee, tilting her head thoughtfully to herself.

"And then I'd of course hang your testicles above my fireplace to immortalize the pain we put you through for thinking such nasty boy thoughts."

"Where did you _come_ from?" spluttered Burley, looking at her in disbelief. "I thought you—you were in Norfolk interrogating—talking to—"

"Brett Dorset?" she supplied, taking pity on his embarrassment. "I got a confession 'bout three hours ago; there wasn't much traffic on the drive back."

"Where's Gibbs?" Burley demanded.

"Hell if I know," she answered blithely. "He took off after we got back."

Decker glared at Jenny accusingly.

"He's obviously hiding around here somewhere teaching her how to mimic his silent eavesdropping approach," Decker said narrowly. He glanced around warily, stacking his files back and neatly patting them. "She's Simba and we're the poor little Zazus she's learned to pounce on."

"I do not understand what you just said," Jenny said seriously.

"Uh, _The Lion King_," Decker said, giving her a look as if it were obvious. "Haven't you seen it?"

"Last time I checked I wasn't five years old," she retorted.

Decker squawked, offended at her comment.

Burley jerked his thumb at their outraged colleague.

"He watches cartoons at the theatre by himself when we're not on duty," Burley revealed.

"It was based on _Hamlet_!" crowed Decker.

"Yeah, okay, then explain _Pocahontas, Aladdin, Toy Story_, and _The Jungle Book_," demanded Burley.

Decker slammed his fist on his desk defensively.

"_You_ saw _The Jungle Book_ with me!" he shouted.

"Only because my Mom read me the book!"

Jenny stared at them, slowly closing her lips over her straw and taking a drink of her coffee, fascinated by the utterly nonsensical exchange occurring in front of her. Gibbs chose that moment to appear in the bullpen, armed with a cup of coffee that bore a completely different logo than hers, and glare at the two agents. She pointed with her ring finger and spoke around the straw.

"Gibbs, who's your favorite?" she asked wryly.

He shot her a look and snorted, slamming a drawer shut and interrupting the fight going on between Decker and Burley. They both shut up, looking at Gibbs sheepishly.

"How did this start?" Gibbs asked, gesturing at the two of them, but looking at Jenny.

"Oh, you _don't_ want to know," she said seriously, though she knew Burley was shooting her a pleading look, begging her not to inform Gibbs of the cop-nurse-criminal porno situation.

"Yeah, I don't," he decided, straightening up. "We've got the day to work on Peres' confession. Come on, close this damn case, or I'm makin' all of you watch _The Fox and The Hound_ on constant loop."

"Is that threatening?" Jenny asked, starting to follow Gibbs.

"Jesus, Shepard, do you have feelings?" Decker asked. "Boss, that's such a sad threat—" he stopped whining when Gibbs' head-slapped him, and Jenny cocked an eyebrow, smirking. Gibbs went on ahead of them, and Decker was left nursing his head and glaring at Burley and Jenny.

"You don't think the doomed friendship of a cute fox and a cuddly dog, natural born enemies, is sad, Jenny?" asked Burley mockingly.

"Natural born enemies? A domesticated canine would _hardly_ come into contact with a fox on any daily basis, and foxes aren't going to seek out a puppy unprovoked—I haven't seen the movie, though, what would I know?"

Decker just glared at her.

"Your childhood was a dark and terrible place."

Jenny shrugged, and closed her lips back over her straw.

She liked to remember her childhood as a few happy years when she'd spent the precious moments of her father's leave time watching M.A.S.H. with him.

* * *

Ducky looked up with a warm smile as the redhead entered his domain.

"Ah, Jennifer, it's a pleasure to see your neck is healing," he remarked right off the bat, approaching her with a twinkle in his eye. He craned his head to look at the rapidly fading bruises. "I assume your voice is back to normal?"

"If I could carry a tune, I'd be singing," she responded, smiling good-naturedly. She looked past him at the body laid out and open on his slabs. She tried to push the salacious memory autopsy held to the back of her mind and nodded at the body. "I guess I'm a little premature checking on our body," she apologized.

He looked regretful.

"I'm afraid I'm just starting on Agent Pacci's body," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I should begin on Gibbs' late this afternoon, if I finish up this poor soldier in time," he added, gesturing at the cold corpse.

Jenny smiled and folded her arms.

"Well, I should stay a while and make it seem as if I attempted to force answers out of you," she sighed. "Gibbs would be livid if he thought I was easy on you," she added wryly.

Ducky beamed and happily returned to his unsavory work, although this time he had his back to Jenny, shielding the body from her view—he knew the messier parts of his coroner duties turned her stomach, no matter how much she'd insisted it was just the boys' teasing that had done her in the first time.

"Yes, of course, the determined need to succeed and succeed quickly that develops in those who are subjected to Jethro's rule," Ducky mused.

"Oh, I wouldn't do Gibbs the honor of crediting him with my drive," she answered lightly, laughing a little.

"He doesn't intimidate you, my dear?" Ducky asked slyly.

"Not so much anymore," Jenny answered smoothly. "I won't pretend he never did, though," she admitted. "He even made me cry once."

"Did he?" Ducky asked. "I have a difficult time believing _that_," he said, complimenting her ability to take Gibbs' personality in stride.

"Believe it. It was a week or so after I started, and he thought I was asking useless questions when we were bouncing around ideas on a case. He said—and I think I'm quoting—'If I wanted a pretty face to annoy me with stupidity, I'd hire my wife'. I went home and cried, I was so offended."

Ducky clicked his tongue.

"Your best bet at revenge would have been to call Jethro's wife and tell her what he'd said," Ducky chuckled wickedly. "Diane is a very intelligent woman. She no doubt would have made his life hell on your behalf."

Jenny obliged Ducky with a laugh, but she snorted silently to herself. She highly doubted Diane Gibbs would do anything on Jenny's behalf, even if she were in the dark about the attraction—and sometimes action—between her husband and his probie.

"You know," Ducky went on, talking aloud fondly, "you and Jethro have a lot in common. Work oriented, rather wary of personal conversations, incessantly focused on perfection," the medical examiner listed off personality traits. "You're more politically oriented than he, and you have a way with people, but essentially—the two of you are a remarkable team."

Jenny leaned against an autopsy slab, cocking an eyebrow at Ducky's back.

"I'm not sure I should take that as a compliment," she said neutrally.

"It was certainly meant as one," Ducky answered, looking at her over his shoulder. "I have never known him to take so quickly to a new agent."

"You're the only one who seems to think it has anything to do with my capabilities," she said dryly, crossing her arms.

Ducky let out a chuckle, clicking his tongue.

"Ah, yes, well—as he is married, I do like to give Jethro the benefit of the doubt."

Jenny laughed along with Ducky, though she wasn't sure it was that amusing of a thing. She fell silent, frowning slightly, trying not to think about her physical involvement with Gibbs—but doing so all the same in a highly logical, detached manner. She was so absorbed for the moment that Ducky's next question startled her into brutal, unintended honesty.

"What do you think of Gibbs, my dear?" he mused thoughtfully, genuinely interested in her opinion.

It was a question with that had so many answers she wasn't sure she could ever fully satisfy it, but she was so unprepared to be asked it that she simply parted her lips and let out the first thing that came to mind:

"He's sexy."

* * *

Director Morrow pointed at the big screen in MTAC, pinpointing a few key areas as he explained an intelligence tip to Gibbs. Gibbs raised his eyebrows, disbelief growing with every word the director said. When Morrow finally fell silent again, Gibbs glanced over at him, narrowing his eyes.

"Really?" he asked.

"I'm afraid so," answered Morrow dryly. "It's very lucrative."

"I can see that," Gibbs said, gesturing at the screen that lit up a map of the Marine base in Maryland. "But why'd our guys have to go get involved in somethin' stupid like that?"

"Money," Director Morrow sighed, standing up, "is an irrationally motivating thing," he said dryly, turning to face Gibbs. "The issue has gotten slightly out of hand, and the Maryland police force is facing roadblocks from the Navy, naturally," he explained.

Gibbs nodded. Of course the Navy would protect it's own, particularly if it thought there might be an embarrassing cover-up involved.

"Slightly out of hand?" Gibbs scoffed. He threw his hand out at the screen again, thinking about the information he'd just gotten. "Someone saw a hyena in the streets!"

"And we can't expect to convince Marylanders that they're simply seeing a big alley cat," Morrow muttered dismally. "That's why I'm sending in your team," he said, looking at Gibbs while he gestured for the techs to move on to some other work with the big screen.

"Why not earlier?" Gibbs asked.

"Honestly? I thought it was a conspiracy theory started by some radical environmentalist pacifist group in the area. We followed that lead for a while. However, now there's a petty officer dead from a nasty animal attack, and some very rich marines running around a city where there are rumors of some very exotic pets," Morrow related grimly. "Rings like this could spread to New York and cross the Canadian border, and that's the last thing this Navy or this government needs to be dealing with."

"What's the assignment?"

"Surveillance," Morrow answered promptly. "Probably for about a week in Maryland, maybe less if we get the job done, maybe more if we get nowhere," he said. "It's tricky—we've got an agent out there, but new Intel has forced me to think he's in on the business, and your team can't be detected."

"Not a problem," Gibbs said, standing up and shrugging. "They're pros."

Morrow nodded curtly.

"I'll have Charlene call you with a time for a full briefing," he said. "Until we get the details worked out, just warn your team not to make plans that can't be cancelled."

Gibbs nodded, taking Morrow's abrupt words as a dismissal.

"Gibbs," Morrow called, stopping him right before he left. The director arched a grey eyebrow a little. "Try not to let Shepard get banged up this time. She hardly has any time under her belt and she's got a concussion, strangulation, shock induced panic…" Morrow trailed off.

"Yeah, sir," Gibbs said gruffly, giving him a dubious look. "I'll try tellin' her to let the boys take this one."

Morrow snorted at the sarcasm in Gibbs' tone and turned back to the MTAC screen, grinning a little as he heard the metal door slam shut securely.

* * *

"Jenny," growled Decker, elbowing her as they stood in the elevator balancing containers of Chinese food for lunch. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"Seriously, Shepard."

"_Noth_._ing_."

"You are _never_ this introspective," Decker pointed out. "Cat's had your tongue all morning," he added. He waggled his eyebrows suddenly. "Is it your time of the month?"

She slowly turned her head and glared at him, and William Decker was suddenly reminded of that one Halloween he watched _The Exorcist_ with his DEA buddies. His smile faded and he swallowed hard, backing away a little. He looked straight ahead at the elevator doors.

"I'm just sayin' you're acting funny," he muttered moodily.

Jenny didn't answer; truth be told, she could see no fathomable way in which she could explain herself without sounding like _the_ most ridiculous woman in existence on planet earth. She was stewing in a state of utter embarrassment and disbelief as she _repeatedly_ tried to figure out just why she'd stood in front of Ducky and dreamily told the ME that Gibbs was "sexy" like she was some lovesick, vocabulary deficient cheerleader.

She couldn't tell Decker that she'd told Ducky she thought Gibbs was _sexy_.

She couldn't even convince _herself_ that horrifying moment had actually _happened_.

She had briefly entertained the idea of fleeing to the lab and telling Miller, but Miller wouldn't be interested and well—the idea of one more person at this office knowing that she was thinking something so annoying was repellant. She didn't have any girlfriends she could relay her mortification to; she had let most of her friendships fall by the wayside in the wake of her obsession with her father's "suicide".

No; Jenny had to bear this infuriating aftermath of her stupid simple sentence in solitary silence.

The elevator doors opened and they strolled out, bearing chopsticks and Chow Mein for nearly half the office—Jenny didn't even know whose dime this was on. She silently helped distribute food and then took her own container to her desk, still quiet. She propped her feet up, fixed her eyes on a threat memo that was on her desk, and pretended she was absorbed in it.

_He's sexy_.

Why did her inner voice find it necessary to incessantly torture her? She didn't need to hear herself say it over and over again; she was _there_ when it happened. She had a first hand account. The question was _why_ had she said it. No, that wasn't even a question; Gibbs was blatantly sexy in her opinion, it wasn't uncharacteristic for her to think such a thing.

It was distinctly troublesome that she had apparently gotten so lost in la-la land thinking about him that her professional filter had eviscerated itself and let her gobsmack Ducky with unnecessary insight into her Freudian subconscious.

Ducky was probably chuckling away right now, just thinking up ways to pour humiliation salt into her shame wound by comically relating the tale to Gibbs, thus ending any shred of respect he had for her as an agent.

Jenny paused and stopped chewing her food, kicking herself in the ass mentally.

She was being entirely too overdramatic about this entire incident.

"Shepard," the gruff voice of Agent Sexy—_GibbsGibbsGibbs_—himself broke into her thoughts and she was so annoyed with herself and him for throwing her off her game that she fixed her eyes on him nastily and snapped:

"_What_?"

She swore her snippy, unprovoked rudeness induced a hush to fall over the bullpen.

Gibbs returned her glare narrowly, obviously not pleased to have been so disrespected without reason. He obviously took her uncivil response as an indication that he should be as caustic as humanly possible, so he dropped her Red Yarn Case report on her desk unceremoniously and smirked.

"Your report looks like it was written by a robot Prom Queen," he said coolly. "Where's your head, Shepard?"

"Robot Prom—_what_ does that even _mean_?" she demanded, ignoring the snickers she was getting from Burley.

He reached over and flipped open the report, flicking the page.

"Swirly, distracting hand-writing—damn, you wrote it like it was an art history paper."

"How do _you_ know what an art history paper is written like?" she demanded shrilly. She slammed her container of food down and stood up. "I'm not re-writing that."

He looked at her coldly, one-eyebrow going up frigidly.

"Not an option, Jen," he said curtly.

The use of the intimate nickname obliterated any chance there was of her remaining even minimally civil. She grit her teeth, sorting through a myriad of poisonous responses, but her eyes mistakenly fell on his wedding ring and that made her even angrier—and to her horror, she felt like bursting into tears.

She compressed her lips tightly. She held her hands up and made a motion as if she would shake him.

"You are the most infuriating _bastard_," she barked, shoving her chair back.

She swept the file off her desk and stormed out, probably more petulantly than was necessary, but well aware she could no longer stand to be in the same room with him until she figured out just what was going on with her feelings at the moment.

She left them a little bewildered as to what had just happened. Gibbs turned a glare on the only team members left.

"What did you two do to her?" he growled.

"_Us_?" Burley asked, pointing to himself. "What did _you_ do to her?" he retorted seriously, his eyes wide. Gibbs looked at Decker for an explanation, and his usually helpful agent just shrugged a little cautiously. He muttered under his breath and turned his face to his food.

Gibbs looked at Shepard's vacated desk and frowned, unnerved. She wasn't one to act so intemperate without provocation. It was irksome.

"Gibbs, come on, she's been normal the whole time she's worked here, the psycho had to come out _some_ time," Burley said lightly, grinning his old teasing grin. He sighed dramatically and clicked his tongue. "Women just can't hide the crazy."

But Gibbs didn't think it had anything to do with any fabled 'crazy' inherent in women.

He felt tense, and a sickening sense of guilt, almost, at the thought that maybe his advances weren't entirely welcome; he was suddenly haunted by the thought that when he'd kissed her in the showers—and then what had happened in the car—had just been actions she didn't think she could turn down—that she didn't really reciprocate the attraction he was beginning to find overwhelming.

* * *

She ended up assuring herself that Ducky was too much of a gentleman to gossip, but she stood in her kitchen restless and still fuming over those stupid few words. She held a mug of steaming tea to her lips and listened to Noemi finishing up cleaning something. Today had ended early; they were leaving tomorrow for an operation in Maryland, and the Director had sent them home to give them down time.

The bruises on her neck were all but gone—there was just one stubborn blackish-brown mark that refused to subside—and she was interested in this new assignment they had; it was a welcome change from the past few day's milling around the Navy Yard doing nothing.

Attempting to busy an illegal animal trading ring seemed like a fun thing to do. It would probably take her mind off the mixed thoughts she was having about her boss. Things had come a long way from her casually thinking he was physical attractive when she first began working at NCIS. She was walking thin ice now, and there was probably boiling water underneath.

She was restless, and she probably needed a drink. What was worse, she needed to get laid, and she had gotten it into her head lately that the only person who'd be able to adequately satisfy that need was Gibbs. A completely irrational thought, considering the wedding ring, yet not all that unrealistic, considering _he'd_ been the first to indicate that he was okay with extramarital sexual activity.

Jenny was suddenly seriously unsure that she could spend any time in close quarters with Gibbs and not ignore her better judgment and seduce him. Appalled at the thought, and suddenly firmly of the mind that she was not going to be that woman who interfered in a marriage—she set down her mug, and ran up her stairs.

She changed out of her ratty sweats and into a pair of too-tight black jeans. She threw on a loose blouse, decided to forgo a bra, and rummaged around her closet for a pair of well-loved black pumps. On her way to the bathroom to tease her hair a little and pat on some lip stain, she swept her cordless phone off the bureau and dialed a number.

"Rick," she greeted coyly, as soon as the cop answered the call. She smirked in the mirror as she puckered her lips and ruffled her hair, checking her appearance. "What're you up to tonight?"

She smacked her lips quietly to seal in the colour and laughed when he teased her about ten o'clock being a little late for dinner.

"Not a problem," she said silkily. "I'm only interested in dessert. I'll meet you at your apartment when your shift is over?"

At least she'd have the need to get laid taken care of before she traipsed off to Maryland with Gibbs.

* * *

"Diane," Gibbs shouted up the stairs. "Diane!"

"You don't have to _shout_ up the stairs, Leroy," her voice came snapping back, muffled by the distance between them.

He rolled his eyes and came up from the basement quickly, wiping his hands on a towel. He'd been staining some of the wood and he didn't want her to see his dirty hands and freak out over him touching something.

"Been waitin' for you to come home," he said, as she walked past him with her purse and brief case and dumped all of it unceremoniously onto the coffee table in the living room.

"Well, damn, looks like the anticipation didn't kill you," she snapped at him, disappearing without another word up the stairs towards the bedroom. He stared after her in mild disbelief at the acidity in her greeting, and then sprinted up the stairs after her.

She was changing clothes when he walked into the bedroom. She turned her back to him and was out of her work clothing and into jeans and a loose t-shirt before he could say anything; she began to sweep up the business casual clothes into her arms.

"Bad day at work?" he provoked sarcastically, following her when she brushed past him into the bathroom. She chucked her clothes into the laundry basket and hoisted it up onto her hip.

"It was lovely," she responded curtly. "You need anything washed?"

"No," he answered distractedly, blocking her exit. "What's your problem?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "I haven't had time to piss you off."

She looked at him sharply.

"Leroy, there are certain days when I spend a lot of time thinking about the pros and cons of loving you, and you don't always come out on the positive side," she said icily. "This is one of those days."

She nudged his arm with the laundry basket and, a little taken aback, he moved to let her storm past him, out of the bedroom, and back down the stairs. He let her go for a minute before slowly following, opting to be cautious in a situation that could potentially become volatile. He meandered into the laundry room about five minutes after her and stood hesitantly near the basement stairs, looking at her warily.

"Diane, I'm goin' to Maryland for a case," he said bluntly. "Be gone about a week."

"Fine," she answered. "I'm going to Seattle for a few days," she responded firmly. "My flight's in two days."

"I'm leaving tomorrow," he said.

"Can I borrow your truck?" she asked. "I don't like to leave my BMW parked at Reagan," she said tightly.

"Yeah," he said. "You know where the keys are," he added.

She nodded, and he turned to retreat to the basement for his own safety when she stopped him, her hand resting on the washing machine thoughtfully. She turned her head and looked at him guardedly.

"Who's going to Maryland?" she asked neutrally.

"The team," he answered warily.

"All of you?"

He bristled, irritated.

"Decker and Burley, too, Diane," he snapped, unappreciative of the insinuation.

She turned away, shrugging her shoulders. She didn't care if it upset him, she was suspicious and she was tired of feeling bad about it. She had already asked him if he was having affair, and now she thought she'd done it prematurely. She couldn't ask again without coming off as paranoid.

"Leave me your contact information," she requested coolly.

Gibbs just nodded and quickly returned to the basement, the boat, and the bourbon before she had a chance to dig into him about anything else that popped into her passive-aggressive mind.

* * *

Jenny checked her watch swiftly as she rinsed her toothbrush, noting that she was making good time and there was really no need to rush. She had to meet Gibbs at NCIS at eight, and it was six-thirty now. She'd have just enough time to pack for Maryland, get to the Navy Yard, and get her head on straight for this operation.

She checked her reflection in the unfamiliar mirror to make sure there were no dark circles under her eyes; even though she'd gotten little sleep, her face didn't reflect that. She gently prodded a scandalous hickey on her neck with a slight frown, and then zipped up her toothbrush and toothpaste in the case she'd brought, flicked off the light, and quietly exited Rick Colter's bathroom.

She shoved her toiletry case back into her duffle bag and tucked her knotted hair behind her ears while she pulled out a pair of shorts and slipped them on over her panties, chewing slightly on her lower lip. She was looked around for her bra, and was just remembering that she hadn't worn one when Rick woke up with a start and stared at her in the dark.

He rubbed his face and fumbled for a lamp, blinking at her groggily.

He smiled lazily, and she was once again struck by how damn _Hollywood_ his looks were.

"You don't have to go," he said, waving his arm welcomingly. "I won't kick you out."

She smirked and laughed a little, turning and drawing a wrinkled t-shirt out of her bag. She threw it on and then crawled onto his bed, crouching over his hips and chest like an animal, her hair falling over her shoulders and brushing his chest.

"No, I _do_ have to go," she said, bending to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Work," she explained curtly, sitting back on his abdomen lightly and straddling him. "Case is taking us out of town."

"Sounds interesting," Rick said, reaching out with both hands to touch her waist and slide his hands up. She pushed his hands away and he smiled, placing them behind his head like a pillow. "Where are you Navy cops off to?"

She gave him a look that clearly told him she would not answer, and he shrugged good-naturedly.

"I was surprised you called me," he said.

"Why?" she asked, tilting her head and arching her brow. "Because you didn't call me?" she asked, reminding him that he'd said he would. Her light look told him she didn't care because she wasn't that interested, but he still looked a little sheepish.

"Uh, I didn't know if you'd want me to, after Havisham."

"You didn't have anything to do with her," Jenny answered, shrugging. She got off Rick and off his bed and found her sandals, slipping them on.

"Heller bruised up your throat pretty bad," Rick said darkly, reminding her that the strangling had been Rachel's fault.

Jenny gave him a wry look and touched the bit mark on her throat.

"Yeah? So did you," she said, standing up. She picked up her bag and then sat on the edge of his bed next to him. She bent forward and pressed against him, giving him a long, slightly enjoyable, appreciative kiss. "Thanks for the _coffee_," she said smugly, flicking her tongue along his lower lip.

He groaned in annoyance, probably at the idea of her leaving.

"Anytime, babe," he said, smacking her lightly on the ass as she got up. "I _will_ give you a call this time," he added, laughing.

"Mmm, now that you've had a taste," she teased. She swung her bag over her shoulder, shrugging a little and pursed her lips. "This doesn't have to be anything other than it was," she said bluntly.

He raised his eyebrows and laid his head down, obviously still tired and content to let her go and fall back to sleep.

"Cool," he said lightly, and she grinned, giving him a wave that he didn't see as she left the room.

She tiptoed gingerly through his apartment and out the door, taking the stairs rather quickly out to her car. It hadn't been a bad night in bed at all—not, it had been a far cry from that—but the empty feeling she had in the hours after was unpleasant, she wasn't usually one to resort casual sex as a fix for her problems. She was experienced enough to know when she was essentially using someone as nothing more than a human vibrator, and she didn't much like the idea.

The sun was already up and emitting a low, warm light over the world as she drove back to her townhouse and braced herself for this upcoming Maryland stakeout.

* * *

"Just because we're on a stakeout doesn't mean you have to dress like a—_ow_," Burley broke off, nursing his shoulder after her sprang away from the punch Shepard delivered to it.

"I'm not sure I wanted to hear what you were going to say," she said in a sickly sweet voice.

"Jenny," drawled Decker playfully, handing her a cup of coffee. "No hitting the weaker kids."

"I was at the gym," Jenny lied blithely, uninterested in getting into her personal life with the boys. She shrugged, perfectly comfortable and confident in her shorts, old sandals, and faded t-shirt. Decker, however, was sly and more perceptive than she'd counted on. He whistled wolfishly and poked her neck, right where she knew the hickey was.

"Does the gym have a name?"

Jenny put her index finger to her chin and pretended to think about it.

"Oh, if only I could remember—it was something like 'mind your own business' or 'shut the hell up'…" she mused, smirking _just_ a little.

"Or 'handsome metro cop'," Burley piped up. She glanced at him and he looked hesitant, obviously trying to join in on the banter without taking it in the wrong direction. She just smirked a little more to give him the green light. Ah, hell—if they knew she was sleeping with Colter, at least they'd stop betting on her sleeping with Gibbs.

She took a long sip of her coffee and smiled appreciatively.

"Thanks, Will, you know how I like it," she said gratefully.

He shrugged.

"Gibbs picked it up," he said, showing her his own cup. "Weird, right?"

Jenny puckered her lips thoughtfully and pressed them against her coffee mug. That made sense; she wasn't sure Decker would know how she drank her coffee, but Gibbs certainly did.

Gibbs came into the bullpen with a military issue backpack on his shoulder, holding a bundle of files in his hands. He waved it at them brusquely, managing to hold keys and a coffee cup in the other hand.

"Got the final Intel, c'mon," he said gruffly, not bothering to greet her.

"Gibbs, you know we're dragging Shepard out of bed with her metro boy toy," Burley drawled.

Gibbs paused in his determined tracks and turned, looking her up and down a little sarcastically. His eyes fell on her neck and then snapped quickly to her eyes and this time there was no doubt about it. He was jealous. So she quirked a brazen eyebrow and lowered the coffee cup from her mouth.

"That's too bad," Gibbs said curtly, obviously pleased to screw with any of his team's non-work related plans. "Hate to interrupt your fun," he said sarcastically.

"Ah, that's alright," she answered breezily, holding her own. "I'm sure I can manage by myself for the few lonely nights I'm stuck in Maryland," she added suggestively, flexing her hand a little.

Decker let out a bark of laughter. Gibbs looked at her hand, shrugged, and smirked, turning to storm off towards the elevator.

"Not unless you want an audience," he announced boldly, holding up the files. "Two agents to a room, Shepard," he called over his shoulder. "Pick which one of us you want."

Burley let out a laugh that was clearly meant to pity her; clearly, co-ed teams weren't yet in the hotel budget for NCIS.

The redhead fixed a glare on every single one of her male team members and actually prayed that Gibbs would just arbitrarily assign her to a room—because she'd rather claw her eyes out than deal with the teasing that would come out of _choosing_ any of them.

* * *

Gibbs had Jenny drive one of the cars to Baltimore; she could drive stick and Decker couldn't, so she took a car with him and Burley rode with Gibbs. She assumed that meant Gibbs would put her with Deck when they got to their hotel, and she was correct—something she was grateful for. Common sense told her she could never allow herself to room with Gibbs—they'd be in bed together in seconds, and not in a professional way. On that note, with her current state of mind, she didn't think she could gracefully handle rooming with Stan.

They were relatively comfortable, acceptably spacious connecting rooms, with king-sized beds, desks, simply bureaus, and bathrooms in each. Gibbs gave them all an hour of downtime settling in before they were going to debrief and go over their roles.

Jenny threw her things on the right side of the bed and wandered into the bathroom to brush her hair. It was sticky and hot outside; the weather had been cruel to her red locks and she was determined to fix it. Decker wandered around awkward, exploring the drawers in the hotel room. He sat down on the bed and flicked through the complimentary bible left on the bedside table. In the mirror, she saw him glance at her things.

"Do you snore?" she asked.

"Wha-?" he asked, distracted.

"Do you snore?" she repeated, flipping her hair over her face, bunching it up, and tying it into a bun messily. She pulled at the skin under her eyes, frowning, and then turned off the light, walking into the room and dropping down heavily in an armchair.

"I dunno," he answered, shrugging. "I'm asleep."

"Has anyone ever _told_ you that you snore?" she asked.

He thought about it a minute, and then shook his head.

She sighed in relief.

"Good, snoring makes me crazy," she stood up and walked to the bed, throwing her stuff uncaringly onto the floor. She lay down thoughtfully and stretched her arm out. "We can share the bed," she said matter-of-factly.

"I can sleep in the chair, Jenny," he said seriously.

"Really, Will, it doesn't matter."

"I dunno, I don't want to make you uncomfortable," he muttered seriously.

Jenny laughed lightly and turned toward him, propping her head up on her palm and looking at him with raised eyebrows.

"Man, you don't _know_ uncomfortable until you've been stranded in someone's barn after a Sigma Kappa Halloween party and end up having to share the hayloft with three piglets, your best friend, and the drunk guy she's hooking up with."

Decker burst out laughing.

"Damn, I shoulda gone to college in—" he broke off, glancing at her to fill him in.

"Georgia," she reminded him.

He just whistled and shook his head, swinging his leg on the bed and smacking his knee with the bible. She lunged towards him, snatching the book from him, and placing it squarely in the middle of the bed.

"Here, we'll sleep with this between us, just so you know who's watchin' in case you try any funny business."

Decker snorted and made the sign of the cross, lifting an eyebrow.

"So, about this Sigma Kappa _barn_ party…"

She snickered, and was about to start filling him in on some of the tamer details when Gibbs barged into the room, followed by a wary looking Burley, and thrust a handful of files and earpieces down on the bed at Jenny and Decker's feet. He shot them an annoyed look, and Burley looked desperately jealous of Decker's good luck in _not_ having to room with the taciturn ex-Marine.

"What party?" Burley asked, taking up the armchair Jenny had been in.

"Shepard slept in a barn," Decker enlightened everyone.

"Really?" asked Burley with interest.

"Big red one," Jenny answered matter-of-factly.

"Roll in the hay?" Burley snorted.

"Not me," Jenny said primly. "But my _poor_ friend Meg, if I hadn't been there to watch, she'd never have been able to remember the next morning."

Burley grinned and shook his head.

"You done?" Gibbs asked, glaring at Jenny. She shrugged and fell silent, indicating he could go on with dictating how their lives were going to work for most of this boring, stuffy surveillance operation. Gibbs picked up a file and opened it, throwing down a blueprint of a building for them to look at.

"We're gonna be stationed in some older government housing building," he said gruffly, "The place is being renovated, and Morrow wrangled us clearance to use it from Baltimore authorities…"

* * *

The first few rounds of surveillance did not go well. In an effort to remove temptation from her midst, Jenny had agreed to team up with Burley—an arrangement Gibbs had already assigned, though he'd done the courtesy of asking her if it were okay. She was confident she could handle it.

That is, until the end of a six-hour shift cooped up with him in which _soy sauce_ had ended up in her _hair_.

Now she stood glaring at him lethally from beside the bed in the hotel room, her hair washed and soaking wet as it hung, clean, down over her shoulders, and Burley was pointing at her, desperately trying to defend himself to Gibbs.

"C'mon, this isn't fair! I assumed she _knew_ that stakeouts meant pranks, it isn't my fault she came unprepared!"

"Soy sauce in her hair, Stan?" Decker asked skeptically.

Burley held up his hands defensively.

"I didn't know she had a _thing_ about snakes, she fell into that table on her _own_."

Then, Stan made the worse mistake he possibly could have made: he laughed.

Jenny strode across the room aggressively enough to make him squeak in surprise and hunch forward, not so subtly protecting his groin.

"Oh no, Stan, I won't attack when you're expecting it, _never_ when you're expecting it," she threatened in a terrifying tone.

"Gibbs," Burley squawked.

"Ah, you gotta be able to take what you give, Steve," Gibbs said, strolling forward and taking Jenny's arm. He gently pulled her away from Stan, and she whirled to him, folding her arms tensely.

"Don't pair me with him," she said frankly. "I quit babysitting when I was sixteen."

"When was that, Probie, three years ago?" Burley asked a little nastily.

Gibbs rubbed his forehead. Jenny pointed at Decker.

"I'll work with him," she said shortly.

"No," Gibbs retorted curtly. "You and Deck know the tech stuff, that's why you're not together," he reminded her. She thrust her hands out and shoved her palms into his chest recklessly.

"Then I'll work with _you_," she snapped. "I don't give a _damn_ if it makes you uncomfortable."

His gaze turned steely, and she was aware that she had overstepped and made the moment more awkward than was necessary. Decker cleared his throat and stood up, rubbing the back of his head subconsciously.

"Look, Boss, I'm fine with workin' with Stan, we've done it before," he said, trailing off a little when Gibbs didn't even look at him.

"Shepard," Gibbs said calmly, his voice a little tense. He jerked his head towards the door. "Hallway."

She grit her teeth and turned sharply on her heel, storming out of the hotel room. He followed her, and she heard the door slam—and whirled on him unsticking her jaw stiffly and narrowing her eyes.

"No elevator for you to trap us in here," she said snarkily.

"Calm down," he said.

She frowned and put her hands on her hips.

"You _know_ Stan and I clash, and you stuck me with him anyway, Gibbs!"

"You and Decker know the tech stuff; we need a techie in each pair," he retorted, reiterating his previous words. She nodded tensely, sensing that he was being overtly cautious with her. She shivered, her wet hair making her a little chilly, and blew strands out of her eyes, refusing to back down.

"Look, you had me drive separately, you tried to stick me with Stan, I _get_ it, it's obviously tempting for you to work with me," she saw the scoff begin behind his mouth and glared at him. "I'm not being arrogant. It's a fact," she snapped. "We'll be fine, we'll just keep our eyes on the job. I'm a professional," she asserted firmly.

He nodded, but she still felt something was off.

"What?" she hissed, exasperated. She smacked her hand against her thigh, giving him a frustrated look. "Can you handle it?"

He reached up and rubbed a hand over his jaw and looked like he was trying to force words to form into a coherent sentence, and then he answered her, gruffly:

"The way you were actin' the other day," he started roughly. "When you called me a bastard—"

"Jesus, did I hurt your _feelings_?"

He laughed sarcastically, gritting his teeth. He lowered his voice.

"Am I—are you," he stopped and stared at her like she was an alien for a moment, and then he glanced at the door separating them from the other two. "The thing in the car, was it harassment?"

She stared at him in speechless confusion for a moment and then sighed, her shoulders slumping.

"Christ."

That wasn't much of an answer by even his standards, and he just looked at her bluntly, waiting for her to answer him or accuse him. She pushed her hair back, gripping it tightly, and looked at him, her eyes meeting his as she stared past her pale wrist.

"Jethro, do you really think I'm the type of woman to let you get away with something like that? You think I'd just _take_ it if I felt it was sexual abuse?"

"I don't know what kind of woman you are, Jenny," he said unexpectedly. He looked uncomfortable and exasperated. She let go of her hair and let her hand fall to her side, shrugging.

"I'm not the _type_ to keep my mouth shut if I feel threatened," she said dully. "That's what you've been pissing yourself about?" she asked crudely. She rolled her eyes upwards and her cheeks flushed. She bit her lip, and blurted out: "Because it's not like I reciprocated _voluntarily_ with a," she gave him a vulgar sign-language motion and mouthed the word _hand-job_, "in autopsy."

He put his hand over hers to make her stop and cleared his throat, raising an eyebrow in a kind of warning. She pulled her hand back and propped her fist on her hip again, cooling down a little. He seemed to relax slightly; obviously relieved to hear she wasn't harboring some wounded, hollow fear of his advances.

"Will you get over yourself if I tell you I wanted it?" she asked, her eyes meeting his confidently. It wasn't a come on, and it wasn't a challenge or a lie—it was just raw honestly; the truth. She had wanted it, and he had wanted it to, though he probably was not ready or willing to admit it.

He surprised her, though, by nodding curtly and then, cocking an eyebrow.

"Might make it harder to work with you," he said dryly, but her own brows went up in a bit or surprise because she detected the slight joke in his tone. She pursed her lips and, in an act that was more instinct than insinuation, flicked her eyes downwards just below his belt and back up to his mouth.

She leaned against the door to her room, turning the handle as she prepared to re-enter and fend off the curious looks of Burley and Decker. Meeting his blue eyes, she said:

"You just keep your gun to yourself and your binoculars on the streets and nobody'll break any promises to God."

* * *

"Lions and tigers and bears—"

"—oh, my."

Jenny lifted an eyebrow from behind her binoculars, amused to find Gibbs chiming in to her inane little _Wizard of Oz_ reference. She snickered lightly and shook her head a little, narrowing her eyes again. She was stretched out on her stomach in the cramped quarters they were hold up in, her ankles crossed over each other on the floor behind her.

She frowned uncomfortably as sweat trickled down her neck, making her shiver in annoyance. When she piled her hair on top of her head, it cooled her neck but made her scalp unbearably hot and itchy; when she took her hair down, it tortured her neck—it was impossible for her to win.

She sighed and shifted, sitting up and stretching, rolling her neck from side to side. Gibbs reached out to take the binoculars from her and handed her the headset they were using to listen in to the bugged warehouse. She set them down, letting her hair down briefly and shaking her hands through it roughly, trying to cool off.

"Lions, tigers, and bears are the least of the worries those twerps had," Jenny muttered seriously. She clicked her tongue and reached over Gibbs' knees for a water bottle, pouring some of the (depressingly) lukewarm liquid into her hands and throwing it on her face and hair. She took a long drink of the water and then gestured with an open palm at the warehouse. "Those flying monkeys were twisted pieces of work—what if they have flying monkeys in there?"

She threw the bottle aside and snorted, not sure if Gibbs was paying attention to her. She shook her head and then picked up the headset casually, pursing her lips in a no-nonsense manner.

"If they've got flying monkeys, you're on your own, Gibbs, I didn't sign up for that shit."

She settled the headset over her ears and turned to look at him. He was peering at her over the binoculars, staring at her neutrally in a way she couldn't quite interpret. She looked at him for a moment, waiting for him to say something, and then turned back around, leaning back on her palms and tuning into the—well, the nothing that was happening in her ears.

"What are these Marines doing smuggling hyenas and baboons and whatnot, anyway?" she asked loudly.

"Money," Gibbs grunted.

"Yeah, got that," she retorted. "I just mean, why don't they get a little more theme oriented? Bring in some whales and giant squids and box jellyfish _oh my_."

She snickered at herself.

"Who needs a pet hyena?" she continued, pursing her lips skeptically. "Maybe a cute little red panda I can understand, but hyenas? Ick," she shivered.

"Jenny."

"Yes?"

"Stop talking."

She lifted an eyebrow and glanced slowly over her shoulder at him. He stared straight ahead with the binoculars and she turned her nose up, pretending to be offended. The silence had begun to get as stifling as the heat and she was just trying to save her own sanity.

"If you'd prefer to just look at me, then," she teased loftily, turning back to glare out the window.

She frowned slightly; there was a lull in activity—truth be told, there wasn't much activity at all—and nothing was being said; she adjusted her headset so it was only covering one ear and reached for the water bottle again, unscrewing the cap. She took a drink, spared some more to flick over her face and chest, and re-closed it.

Then she swept her hair back up, baring her neck, and giving him a clear view of the hickey still taunting him from just below her ear. He lowered the binocs and glared a little, narrowing his eyes at the annoying spot. He toyed with the idea of asking her if that pretty boy cop was responsible for it, and wondered what it would be like to taste that spot on her neck himself.

Jenny checked her watch and then rubbed her forehead. She allowed herself a small yawn; the muggy heat was making her groggy and lethargic; she needed the conversation to keep her awake.

"When do Decker and Burley relieve us?" she asked.

"Four," he answered, and she looked at her watch again. Damn if it wasn't only one o'clock right now, and this was boring as hell—worse than the first day had been, almost.

Almost.

There wasn't much that was worse than spending hours upon hours cramped up with Stan Burley.

"Gibbs."

He grunted to indicate he was listening.

"How did you survive heat like this in the desert?" she asked, eager for advice.

He didn't say anything for a moment, and when she shifted to look at him, she noticed he was looking at her intently, a little suspiciously.

"You sure I served in the desert, Shepard?" he asked.

"You're right, you're obviously old enough for 'Nam," she retorted, rolling her eyes. "Only place the US was combatively involved was the Middle East," she said logically. "Unless you were in the Balkans?"

He narrowed his eyes at her sharply, and then shook his head slowly, peering back through the binoculars.

"Panama and Kuwait," he said curtly.

"Desert Storm?"

He nodded, and she noticed his knee twitch slightly. Curiously, she leaned over a little—and without thinking, simply on instinct, she touched his leg just at the knee hesitantly.

"Were you injured?"

He ignored her for so long she thought he wasn't going to answer, and then he just said:

"It was war," in a blunt, sort of mysterious tone, and she figured he didn't want to talk about it. She splayed her hand over his knee, burning the heat of her palm into his jeans and then branding the weight of her hand into his skin.

"Guess you weren't thinking much about the heat," she muttered, pushing a few strands of red hair off her damp forehead.

She didn't know why she did it, but the next thing she knew she had replaced her hand with her head and was stretched out tiredly with her cheek on his legs. She swallowed and rubbed at her neck. He leaned forward and flicked the hickey on her skin gently and she squeaked, smacking his fingers.

"Get up, it's too hot for that," he said gruffly, poking the hickey until she sat up and shoved his legs. She delivered a swift kick to his shins, reaching up to touch her neck gingerly.

Her head swam briefly with the words—_it's too hot_—uttered so many times in the elevator when NCIS' air conditioning had been broken. Heat was a terrible atmosphere for them to be caught in.

"Wear less clothing tomorrow," she shot at him, popping an eyebrow pertly.

He laughed curtly and lowered the binoculars again, nodding at her t-shirt and jeans.

"You first."

She was impressed, and unfortunately a little provoked and turned on, by his semi-flirty—oh, fine, downright seductive—banter. Well, if he was going to ignore the rules and casually ignore the wedding ring factor, she was going to cautiously play along. She would consider the stain on her conscious and the undesirable state of her morals another day.

* * *

Jenny was in the hotel's en suite bathroom, carefully dabbing off her make-up, when she heard Decker trudge back in. It was around eleven, just when his and Burley's shift was ending, and he sounded tired. She heard the door connecting their rooms open, and Gibbs said something in a gruff tone, probably warning them that they needed to meet for debriefing before bed.

Their stakeout hours were odd; because they were trying to not only bust the trading ring but also discover if the NCIS agent already involved was rogue, there were times when none of them were at the scene. When Decker and Burley had taken over their shift at four o'clock, Jenny had separated herself from Gibbs as much as possible.

Currently she was in a state of semi-undress, clad in a pair of demure panties and a short, light robe post-shower. She had forgotten to remove her make-up beforehand, and was in the process of cleaning up the unattractive black smudges.

"Jenny?"

"Bathroom," she answered, nudging the door a little with her hip to close it more. "How was your shift?" she asked.

Decker grumbled something unintelligible, and then his voice got louder as he answered:

"We watched one of the sleazy zoo-keeper guys bang a hooker in the alley—" he started to push open the door as he spoke and she immediately reacted, letting out a shriek of surprise and objection and jamming her knee and elbow against it, preventing him from getting an eyeful of her panties and basically exposed chest.

"What? _What_?" Decker was demanding, panicking. "Hey, you okay? Shepard?"

She was so startled by his sudden attempt to open the door that she could barely form an answer; she just shouted:

"What the _hell_ are you doing, _William_?" at the top of her lungs.

"Jesus Christ, you sound like my mother!" he yelled back, still in that panicky, neurotic tone. "Cool it, I just have to pee!"

She heard doors slamming and groaned, silently lifting her eyes to the ceiling—the unmistakable sounds of Burley and Gibbs storming in from the other room, probably with some macho, ridiculous intent of coming to her rescue.

"You can't just waltz in and _pee_, Deck," she yelled furiously.

"Why not?" he sounded legitimately bewildered.

She gave an indignant, exasperated cry of disbelief.

"I'm half-naked!" she protested shrilly. "I'm a woman! I'm not one of your boys!"

She dropped her make-up removing wipe in the sink and quickly pulled her robe closed, tying it securely around her waist and cursorily making sure it covered her appropriately before she flung open the door and glared at him. She took a moment to let the scene sink in: Decker; half-petrified with confusion, hunching away from her, Gibbs; standing silently and obviously tensely near the bed, and Burley; looking slightly amused and appropriately wary, his gun hanging loosely from his index finger.

And then of course, her, standing in the bathroom in a little cotton robe that was probably clinging to her in all the right places and glaring at them like she'd just caught them rifling through her purse.

Decker saved her the trouble of finding something witty to say by turning tomato red and beginning to splutter.

"I didn't think—I wasn't even, I mean I'm so used to you, and stakeouts with the guys," he flailed around grammatically, trying to explain himself. She couldn't help but feel pity for him; this was Decker she was dealing with, he had probably honestly meant no harm.

Still, she had the right to get a barb or two in.

She threw her arm out, gesturing between the three of them vaguely.

"I don't understand why you men are so eager to _whip it out_ around each other!" she said, one eyebrow going up. "Hate to break it to you, they all look the same to us! Sure, some are a little bigger, but really, they all _do_ the same damn thing!"

She realized she was talking into stunned silence, and when she quit speaking, Burley twitched in a weird, uncomfortable way and reached up to rub his jaw, looking pained.

"Boss, make her stop," he hissed at Gibbs, looking genuinely appalled.

Burley's desperate plea snapped Gibbs out of whatever annoyed, stoic stupor he was stuck in and he fixed a glare on Decker. Decker winced and straightened up, holding his hands up defensively.

"Gibbs, I _swear_, I wasn't tryin' any funny business," he said, a pained expression on his face. He reached up and scratched the nape of his neck nervously, turning to Jenny with a pleading look. "Come on, give me a break, Jenny, it just means I was treating you as equal as one of them, yeah?"

She rolled her eyes, relaxing, and shooting him a good-natured, small smile.

"Well, shit, Deck, I guess if you put it that way you can bust in on any woman naked," she drawled, half-teasing, half-sarcastic.

Gibbs looked at them both like he was fed up and then just cleared his throat. Burley twirled his gun around like a western cowboy, blew on the mouth of it, and then strolled to the desk and laid it down. Jenny nodded at it, coming out of the bathroom and leaning against the door.

"What were you gonna do with that, Stan?" she asked.

"Fire prematurely," Decker answered immediately, snickering at his own joke.

"You're a riot, asshole," Burley fired back, darting across the room to punch Decker semi-playfully in the shoulder. Decker just snorted, and Jenny pursed her lips, shaking her head. She had always had the feeling that the boys hid their true, teenager-at-heart nature around her.

It was almost pleasant to see it come out here.

She pushed her hair out of her eyes and looked up, meeting Gibbs' eyes by accident. His features were difficult to read, which she had come to understand meant he was either working through how he wanted to feel about a situation, or he had already decided and was hiding the result. Burley and Decker were still messing with each other, so she lifted her chin and raised her voice over the din.

"When's our next round?" she asked.

"Shepard, you wanna take the victor?" Burley asked, his voice muffled. Decker now had him in a headlock.

"Sure," she answered, without hesitation. "I'd decimate you in hand-to-hand combat," she added smugly, continuing with her conversation with Gibbs. "This the night we start round the clock?"

Gibbs shook his head curtly.

"After the shipment. You and I are back on surveillance at six am," he said. "Intel says they've got a shipment coming in sometime tomorrow."

She was about to say something else when Decker ended up flat on his back at her feet, and stared up at her with a frown, winded.

"Take 'im down," he said dramatically, and Jenny turned to look at Burley, who looked quite pleased with himself for dropping Decker to the ground. Decker, considerably more muscular than Burley, seemed rather impressed by the turn of events.

Jenny smirked, already confident enough in her strategy to know she was going to 'win'.

She stepped past Decker, reached out feebly to grab Burley's arm and, when he yanked her around and threw his arm around her neck—as she knew he would—she cried out in a beautiful imitation of actual pain and forced tears to spring to her eyes.

And, just as she had anticipated, Burley released her in a fit of worry, Decker leapt off the floor, and Gibbs barked at Stan to get away from her—and there she stood, untouched, upright, triumphant, because the bunch of old-fashioned chauvinists were afraid they'd _hurt_ her.

"That's cheating," Burley growled.

He looked around in outrage, demanding support from his colleagues.

It was Gibbs who shot him down.

"No," he said gruffly, something like approval flashing in his immovable blue eyes. "That's strategy."

Jenny let a small smile fold over her lips and made a small bowing motion, raising her eyes to look at Gibbs through her lashes. He looked back for a moment, his brow cocked slightly, and then his eyes receded into his usual moody glare again, and he pointed at her callously.

"Oh-six-hundred, sharp," he reminded her bluntly. "Get some damn sleep, Jenny, I'm not doin' your part tomorrow," he added, though she didn't think he was annoyed. He had kicked her off him once, claiming it was too hot, but when she actually had fallen asleep with her head on his thigh, she had awoken in the same place—she got the distinct impression he didn't object to the proximity.

But she just nodded, compressing her lips, and Gibbs disappeared into his and Stan's room, flinging the door closed.

Decker rubbed his shoulder and gave Jenny a surprised look.

"He let you get away with _sleeping_?" he asked incredulously.

"Decker, he lets her get away with whatever the hell she wants," Burley said, rolling his eyes.

She didn't answer, she just inclined her head a little smugly.

"And with that, gentlemen, I'm going to put a bra on," she said smoothly, retreating into the bathroom again—where she was glad she'd already taken her change of clothes—and shutting the door _securely_ this time.

She was sure she wasn't meant to hear it, but Burley didn't seem to understand that hotel doors weren't soundproof and he was a loud talker.

"I don't get how you sleep next to her without suffering," Burley said to Decker, his voice muffled but understandable all the same.

"She's not a blonde," Decker answered seriously.

And she wasn't even offended; she just laughed, and she hoped they heard her, and knew she was listening. Decker was fine with sleeping in a bed with her because she wasn't blonde, and he wasn't attracted to her—well, that, she understood; she was fine with sleeping in a bed with him because he wasn't Gibbs, and she wasn't allowed to sleep with Gibbs.

* * *

Burley was wincing and whining and stretching cramped muscles when Jenny arrived at their stakeout quarters. He eyed her hands full of coffee with longing and nodded his head towards the door.

"Decker just got done briefing Gibbs," he told her. "The shipment didn't happen on our watch, so it'll probably happen on yours. We'll be back to take over for you guys at midnight."

Jenny bit back a yawn and just nodded, slipping past Stan and entering the room. Decker had already left, and she handed Gibbs his cup of coffee silently and stood, looking out the window. It was still hot as hell, and the room didn't smell great—it just felt sweaty and dirty in the cramped quarters.

She looked down, and noted that Gibbs had still shown up in jeans and a polo, apparently refusing to dress for the weather. She had kept her end of the bargain, though—short denim shorts, and a flimsy, simple V-neck was all she wore, with not much underneath to keep her decent.

"No nasty animals rear their ugly heads, huh?" she asked, sipping her coffee moodily.

"Nope," he answered, thrusting a pair of binoculars up at her. "Work," he said gruffly.

"Yeah, yeah," she retorted, trying to balance her coffee in one palm while she maneuvered the binocs. She quickly realized she'd spill, and leaned down, handing her Styrofoam cup to Gibbs.

He turned his head and leaned back slightly, greeted with a view down her shirt that she hadn't meant to give, but didn't exactly cover up right away. It didn't matter, because he didn't look away. He slowly took her cup for her.

"Don't contaminate any evidence, now," she admonished lightly, cocking an eyebrow.

She adjusted the binocs around her neck quickly and swept her cup back into her hands, smirking a little.

"They're not worth compromising a case," she added, once again prodding him to have a little fun.

"Don't sell yourself short," he retorted appreciatively, surprising her with his heady banter. She pursed her lips to show her approval, and straightened up, lifting the binoculars with one hand.

"Careful, Jethro," she teased suggestively. "We're professionals."

* * *

But as the day went on, the line between professional and unprofessional became impossible to walk. It got darker, their coffee got emptier, and though the sun went down, the room only got muggier and more uncomfortable—Jenny knew her shirt was clinging to her, a little damp from sweat, and she was conscious of her (poorly chosen) black bra showing through.

She had already removed her sneakers and ankle socks, letting her feet cool, and he had his polo thrown in a corner, and was sitting stoically in a thin white undershirt with the sleeves rolled up. When he adjusted the binocs or moved to pick something up, the muscles in his biceps flexed and enticed her.

She titled her head back, smirking again, now simply playing with her empty coffee cup. She had the headset only half set on her ears; the shipment had still not shown up, and chatter was almost non-existent. She laughed out loud, and Gibbs gave her a wicked look over the binoculars.

"I've never seen a group of boys stumble over their asses so fast to beat it," she continued, snickering through the relation of one of her stories from undergraduate school. "Beat it, ah, out of the courtyard," she amended, though her raised eyebrows told a different story.

"You win the contest?" Gibbs prompted smoothly.

She lowered her eyes demurely, and then popped them back up, looking at him through her lashes; she chose not to answer, and instead just looked at him in the horrid, dim lighting of the quarters. She glanced at her watch; thirty minutes until their time was up.

She shook her head good-naturedly and pushed loose strands of hair off of her forehead.

They were having a good time, a time that precariously bordered on inappropriate, heavily sexual banter, and genuine laughter and relationship building. He let the binoculars fall around his neck and leaned back, looking at her intently.

"Why'd you leave?" he asked. "Georgia."

"Emory," she corrected, squinting a little, just to clarify. "I went to Emory."

"You've got a bulldog stuffed animal in your house," he pointed out.

She snapped and pointed at him wryly.

"I knew you'd gone snooping," she accused lightly. She shook her head, licking her lips a little. "I dated a 'Dawgs linebacker," Jenny explained. "But Georgetown's mascot is also a bulldog."

"Yeah," he nodded. "Didn't ask about Georgetown."

She gave him a saucy look, arching an eyebrow.

"Nosy," she remarked in a low voice. She frowned a little, moving her head back and forth, considering. But why stop now—so much had come out of her mouth in these past few hours that she'd normally refuse to reveal; Gibbs was irresistible.

She leaned forward, curving her shoulders in, and pulling her feet up a little; she began to playfully attempt to balance her empty cup on her ankles and shrugged a little uncaringly.

"Nothing traumatic, nothing interesting," she said coolly. "I went to Emory on a partial scholarship, and it got me a better scholarship to Georgetown, which is where I'd wanted to go anyway. Came back home for law school."

"Why go to the south in the first place?"

She smirked.

"Cowboys," she answered silkily. She glanced at him and grinned, shaking her head. "I had to sow some wild oats."

He laughed in disbelief and picked up the binoculars again.

"Why'd you leave Georgetown?" he went on. "Not fancy enough?"

Jenny fumbled her coffee cup and it sprung away from her, bouncing across the floor to his leg. She lunged forward onto her hands and knees and crawled forward, winced as the hardwood floors bore into her knees.

"Why'd you leave the service?" she retorted boldly, her eyes finding his as she reached for her cup.

Her foot tangled in a wire and she tripped, her knee sliding and rubbing in a painful burn as she tumbled forward into Gibbs. She rose up on her shins, wincing, and pressed one hand down on his thigh, regaining her balance.

He didn't answer her, but he lowered the binoculars again, his hands coming off of them, and looked at her, blue eyes blazing almost painfully into hers. She bit her lip on instinct, though it seemed to ignite him. Gibbs reached out and pressed his hand against her thigh, his fingers tugging at the edge of her denim, brushing over her sweaty, warm skin, and she interpreted it as an invitation; she threw that leg over his lap and straddled him, her breath hitching in her throat.

His hands rested on her thighs, just above her knees, as if frozen in wonder that she was sitting in his lap. It was a cinematic moment, she looking at him with slightly parted, stained lips and wisps of humid red hair framing her face, and him looking back at her as if he'd just made some sort of crucial move he couldn't take back.

She reached up and pushed the headset roughly off of her, swallowing. Her hands shook as she reached for his neck, and she shifted, pushing herself up a little, pressing her torso against his, and then she was kissing him again—like she had in the showers, and like she had in the elevator. Like those kisses, it wasn't tentative, it was consuming; she was desperate to taste as much of him as she could, and she almost couldn't breathe for the force of the lust that ignited her lips and limbs, and he proved himself to be just as wanton and desperately doomed as she was.

His hands moved up her thighs, applying pressure, dipping into her waistband and fingering the metal, brand name clasp on the wasteful excuse for denim. He seemed to change his mind, and slipped his hand between her legs, between them, and the pressure he exerted—rubbing her inseam into her groin—made her shake and pull her lips away, her eyes closed, and she tilted her head back, managing to swallow down a moan.

She squeezed her legs against his thighs, her nails pricking gently into his neck, and he pulled her towards him firmly, holding her onto his lap, his lips brushing her neck and exploring, tongue tracing her pulse and finding her ear and jaw. She bit her lip, grinding her hips against him, and she had that feeling of dizziness again, like she was spinning out of control.

Her hands slipped from his neck to the binoculars and she hissed as her fingers were slammed together by the impact of hitting the heavy equipment. She didn't want to stop, but the pain numbed her lust—barely, just barely—and she knew they couldn't finish this here, even as she knew that there was no going back, really, and they were going to finish this.

She got loose of him and stood up on shaky legs; his hand snaked around her knee and he leaned against her as if begging her to push him away and give him a reason to stop; she just shudder when his open mouth pressed against her leg and she reached for his shirt, forcing him to stand up with the weak brunt of her strength.

Her hands fumbled for his wrists and she pushed him, adeptly avoiding cords and other hazards, up against the wall by the door, her body fitting against his perfectly as she slammed into him, and that drew a visible, pained response from him; he reached around her and pressed her hips against him.

She checked the time on his watch and then reached between them and unbuckled and unzipped him, and shoved his pants and boxers down his legs—with more aggression and more resolve than she had used in autopsy, and more _need_.

His hands ran up her sides, bunching her shirt in his fists, knuckles eagerly kneading her ribs and her climbing higher until his hand was cupped over her breast and roughly trying to find its way inside the fragile material of the stupid bra she was wearing.

A moan escaped her lips and she pressed her body against his again, her lips dragging against his shirt as she melted a little into his touch, and then she remembered, this wasn't the grand finale, she was stalling, until they could get back to her hotel room, and she fought with his hands, yanking them out of her shirt an away from her breasts, and tightly she intertwined their fingers—

-and dropped to her knees, pushing his hands flat into the wall next to his thighs.

She squeezed his hands and pulled hers free, splaying them against his abdomen, smirking a little when his muscles clenched tightly, and she trailed her hand down in a teasing, unfair way, until she had lazily stroked him from base to tip and before he could choke out her name in appreciation, she had her mouth on him.

And then, he did moan.

He slid his hands into her hair, his fingers working, frustrated, at the bun she'd tied it up in—she was only slightly annoyed when he broke the elastic tie and her red locks came tumbling down around her, because it felt good to have his fingers stroking her scalp, brushing her neck, and pulling her hair, coaxing her to move her head _just right_ and yet giving her enough freedom for comfort.

The floor was murder for her knees, but she didn't care; it didn't matter to her that they were on the job, they were supposed to be keeping a weather eye on this surveillance work, she was too desperate to touch him and to be touched, after so many weeks and months of fighting it, of slip-ups, and of trying to be good.

"Jenny," he ground out hoarsely, and she heard the subtle warning in his tone. She heard his head knock back against the wall and flicked her eyes up, parting her lips, sliding her hand lower on his thigh and then smacking his skin lightly.

He pushed her head down insistently, a groan escaping his lips, and she handled it relatively well, forcing her palm into his thigh only as a subtle warning of her own. He was pulling her hair so _tightly_.

"Jen," he said huskily, his hand sliding a little, touching her neck, and cheek, and then shoulder; he started to push her away, his stomach clenching in a telltale sign, and then he changed tune and shouted "_NO_" so loudly, and so forcefully, jerking his knee and pulling her hair roughly at the same time, that he startled her into having no choice but to swallow.

She blinked; her breath lost, and leaned forward on her hands and knees, unable to figure out what had happened. Then she heard a concerned shout—Burley's voice—and while she was licking her lips and trying to clear her head, she tasted blood in her mouth. The next thing she heard was a zipper, Gibbs swearing, and the door opened, and Gibbs was crouching in front of her, his hand on the back of her head.

"Jesus Christ," Decker swore. "What happened?"

"Busted her lip with that door," Gibbs said roughly, and the lie was so ridiculous and so perfectly executed that she laughed, and sat back on her heels, pushing her hair back. Gibbs hand moved to her neck and he cupped her face, looking at her, the lust and heat of sex still burning in his blue eyes.

She swallowed, wincing a little, and reached up to touch her lip—which she knew he had busted when he'd pulled her head out of view and accidentally hit her with his knee. She licked her bottom lip and laughed huskily, shaking her head to get her hair out of her face.

"Damn, Jenny, are you okay?" Burley asked, kneeling next to her. He tried to look at her face but Gibbs head-slapped him aggressively, and Burley drew back, squealing. "I swear, Decker didn't even bust the door open that hard," he muttered incredulously.

Jenny nodded, composing herself. She covered her mouth and laughed, muffled, detesting the taste of coppery blood in her mouth.

"I shouldn't have been sitting there," she said thickly, waving away their concern.

Gibbs hand slipped off her neck, and she heard Decker gathering some things.

"Here," Gibbs gruffly handed her his polo to hold to her lip, and she did so gratefully, a little intoxicated by the smell of him that emanated from the shirt and the taste of him that still flooded her mouth.

She stood up without help, and scowled when she saw the blood on her white tennis shoes.

Decker and Stan looked at her warily, and she realized that was happening a lot this trip—the two of them were caught off guard. Suddenly, when she met Decker's eyes and he immediately looked away, she wondered if Deck even bought Gibbs' bullshit story. Gibbs turned a glare on the two of them, and she was almost surprised by the intensity of it.

"You two are on until morning," he barked callously. "If the shipment comes on, you're done, we regroup tomorrow," he added. They nodded, indicating they understood, and Gibbs looked over checking on Jenny. She just held up his shirt as if to wave him on, and then buried a smile in it.

"Jenny, I'm sorry," Decker said sincerely, rubbing his jaw sheepishly.

"It's fine, it's just a flesh wound," she said clearly, grinning a little. Burley laughed, privy to the reference, and Decker still looked uncertain and uncomfortable. Gibbs groused something about getting her lip patched up and pushed the door open, holding it for her.

He pulled the door of the apartment shut and she leaned against the wall, relaxing, trying to catch her breath. They both understood the necessity of silence in this moment, and she pressed her hand to her mouth tenderly, closing her eyes for a moment. Then she slipped her hand down her chest and over her stomach, righting her clothing, and buttoning her shorts with a graceful, shaky finger.

She opened her eyes and he was looking at her with something akin to raw need.

He beckoned to her, and turned away, hiding his eyes, and she reached out grasped the back of his jeans, holding his polo in a bunch in her hands, and following him down the treacherous, rickety stairs that would lead them on a safe route out of the complex, and back to the hotel.

Back to the hotel, and thus probably to hell.

* * *

In the middle of the night, with the door shut tightly and the world blocked out, Gibbs threw his bloodstained polo into his room as Jenny made for the bathroom she shared with Decker. He followed her, prowling almost protectively, and was quick to snatch tissues from a box and run them under cold water for her.

He held the damp mass up to her lip gently and pressed, though the bleeding had stopped, and now there was only swelling. She smiled in a wry, flushed way, her green eyes glinting, and leaned against the doorframe, letting him stroke her lip clean with guilty hands. When she'd had enough, she swatted him away, and then she was smirking at him provocatively, part of her lip trapped in her teeth seductively.

She crossed her leg at the ankle, one shoulder of her top drooping lazily, and tilted her chin up so she could meet his eyes better.

"Professional," she admonished sarcastically, her voice throaty.

His eyes flickered dramatically, and she couldn't quite read his expression; he reached out to touch her lip gingerly with his thumb, and then his fingers traced a delicate trail over the barely-there faded bruise on her neck and the hickey Officer Colter had left near it. She saw a flash of jealous, a spark of longing, and for a split second, she thought if he stopped touching her she might die—

-and then she realized how utterly absurd that was, and she wanted to escape from him, to stop.

Right now, they still had a chance to _stop_.

His wedding ring struck cold against her skin, sliding against her collarbone as he touched her gently, moving closer. It was as if he were exploring her, asking her—it was that same moment again, the one where they were each waiting, breathless, begging the other to make the move.

She wanted it so badly. She wanted him to make the move, so she stood still, waiting, refusing to look away from his intoxicating, cobalt eyes. She didn't give a damn about the woman that wedding ring represented, not now. Her stomach stirred and fluttered and she wanted him, and it wasn't just lust—though it had been at first—there was something emotional there, too.

But she didn't think about that.

She cocked an eyebrow, and he reached out with his other hand, touching her hip, his fingers pressing in and gripping as if he would pull her flush against him. She reached out, her lips parted in earnest, and her lithe palm snaked behind his shoulder and she _popped_ him in the back of the head, delivered a head-slap that made his eyes darken passionately and melt into a sort of indignant, challenging glare.

She gasped quietly, in a mocking little way, and bit her bottom lip again.

"Am I not allowed to do that?" she asked in faux consternation. She lowered her voice, lowering her lashes attractively. "And here I thought it was a sign of affection."

Something remarkably similar to a growl ripped out of his throat, low and enticing, something that made her stomach and her spine ache with the need to be touched again. His hand held her a little more tightly at her hip and her breath caught, almost as if she were trying to say something, but couldn't speak.

The tension was palpable.

"Gibbs," she said, her voice edgy, almost a moan.

His lips hit hers, and then his body did, and she was pressed so tightly against him and the wall that she didn't know where his body began; knees against knees, thighs against thighs, chest against chest, and hands—roaming, stroking, clutching, almost as fierce as their mouths.

She thought her knees would buckle, and she thrust her arm up, grabbing tightly to the doorframe behind her, her nails digging into the paintjob. He was unbuttoning her shorts again, slipping his hand over the taut skin of her back and abdomen, slowly inching her pants down until they landed around her ankles and she shivered, biting her lip.

His hand ran over the unimpressive light pink cotton panties that covered her and he abandoned them to her ankles, too, his hands moving immediately to tangle her shirt up in her arms and then over her head, exposing her in front of him—white, blushed skin, parted bruised lips, aching eyes, one black, taunting bra strap slinking off her shoulder.

She pulled his hips against hers, unbuckling and unzipping again, and her hand roamed over his muscles, finding its way to his heartbeat; he ran his own hands up the backs of her thighs and picked her up, pressing possessive, resolved kisses to her neck, his teeth catching her bra and pushing it out of his way. She grasped his hair and his neck, lowering her mouth to his, moaning his name and everything she'd been holding back into the hot, demanding kiss that he returned to her.

He pinned her against the wall, and the doorframe was unforgiving and ruthless against her spine; she couldn't feel the pain, she could only feel his rough hand slipping between them; she gasped, whimpered, when the wedding band touched her again, and she broke the kiss, her lips resting in anticipation at the corner of his mouth.

"Jen," the word escaped his lips in a haze of desire and he was holding back, holding back when she needed him most. He was waiting for her consent; this was the point of no return and they both damn well knew it.

She nodded her head, pressing her lips to his urgently; he gripped her hips tightly and thrust into her. It was one exquisite movement that elicited a sharp cry of exultation from her lips; she dug a heel into his back, tilted her head back against the wall, and struggled to breathe. Her heart raced and she tightened her hold on his shoulders, her fingers brushing his hair and his neck.

Gibbs was only still for a moment. His lips fell against her shoulder, his eyes closed as if he were saying a doomed prayer, and his fingertips dug into her, passionately, possessively, and unforgivably. The wedding ring wasn't cold anymore; it was slick with sweat, warm metal against her skin, a tarnished symbol of a tarnished promise.

She moaned, murmured a demand for satisfaction, and he complied, his mouth finding hers again. She held onto him, struggling to find release from the intense, unbelievable pleasure that this was. He broke the kiss, gritting his teeth, and she felt the inebriating clench of his abdomen as he thrust home, his body fitting against hers, and she curled her body towards him and threw her head back, biting her lip in almost-there frustration.

He was a little too quick for her—he groaned, she felt him mutter her name against her throat, swear against her lips, and she was wincing as he pulled back, his breath ragged, holding her a little more gently.

"Oh," she gasped, parting her lips as she whimpered slightly, still on the edge, still waiting. "Oh, that isn't fair," she moaned, her green eyes flashing in a playful tease.

He let her stand, she did so shakily, and his hand ran between them; he slipped a finger inside her and she grit her teeth, almost losing it—almost. She bit her lip tightly though and put her hands on his hips, looking up into his eyes, her feet flat on the ground, her body still pressed tight against his. She opened her mouth and then sucked in her breath, her toes curling a little, arching towards him.

"Bed," she gasped, pulling his head to hers, kissing him in a slow, lingering way, her lips brushing his as she spoke again, tried to make him wait until he could get her in bed, until she could wrap herself around him, get his mouth between her legs—

"Bed, let's—take me to bed," she said huskily.

"Yeah," he answered gruffly, the growl still deep in his voice, and he stepped back, leaving her cold, and aching, hurting to be finished off.

She swept up the clothing that had been shed and led him into his and Burley's room, where she slammed the door, and pulled him on top of her on the unmade bed and her green eyes met his and there was so much conflict and rawness and intangible understanding and need—and then it was gone, and he was kissing her hard again, and she was tangled up in him, and they had crossed an irrevocable line into a murky world of adultery.

* * *

Stan Burley was busy trying to balance a couple boxes of pizza and a six-pack, and rolled his eyes in annoyance; he kicked the door in front of him roughly, waited a few moments, and then shuffled over to Decker's door and banged his foot against that one. Decker answered after a few moments, looking uncomfortable, and Burley walked in.

"Hey, man, couldn't reach my key," he muttered, carrying the food over to the desk and gesturing blindly at Gibbs' door. "Boss must be asleep."

He popped open a pizza box and rubbed his hands together excitedly.

"Morrow said to take about a twelve hour break, then he'll give us orders. He still wants to talk to Gibbs," Burley stopped talking, turning, and holding a piece of pizza curiously. He cocked his head and frowned, looking around.

"Where's Shepard?" he asked, taking a bite of pizza.

Decker, who had stretched back out on the bed with a newspaper in his lap, didn't answer—he still had that awkward, uncomfortable look on his face. He pressed his lips together, cleared his throat, and pointed vaguely at the door that connected the two rooms.

Burley stopped chewing, his brows going up. In the silence that resulted from Decker's wordless answer and Stan's lack of rambling, the reason for Decker's discomfort became clear. Burley flushed a little, looking at Decker as if he was asking his colleague to confirm what was going on.

"Jesus, you think we should tell them how thin the walls are?" he asked sarcastically, gesturing at the door the same way Decker had.

Decker shrugged and looked at his newspaper.

"It's none of our business," he said tightly.

"It's a little unprofessional," Burley grumbled loudly and indignantly, sitting down in the desk chair and abandoning his pizza. "I couldn't get ahold of him to brief him on the shipment," Burley went on sourly. "You're tellin' me this is why? We're supposed to sit her and listen to him fuck Shepard all night?"

"Christ, Stan, give it a rest," Decker snapped, glaring at him. "We're off the clock for twelve hours, they're adults just—just shut-up. It's not our business," he repeated edgily.

Burley glared momentarily at Decker, then looked at the closed door and kicked his foot a little petulantly.

"I guess I just sleep in here, then?" he asked rudely.

"Stan, you're sleepin' with Miller," Decker pointed out sharply. "You don't get to be up in arms because of this."

"I'm not _married_, Deck!" Burley snapped, pointing to his chest earnestly.

"And you've suddenly got some grand _moral_ compass?" snorted Decker, glaring at his colleague again.

"I dunno, Decker, it just doesn't seem right," Burley snapped sarcastically, scowling.

His brows knit together and he leaned back, one hand rubbing his knee subconsciously.

Decker cleared his throat, still uncomfortable, and just went back to his newspaper, shrugging his shoulders again.

"You've been degrading her about sleeping with Gibbs since she started, and now that she's in bed with him, you don't think it's funny," he said shortly. "Don't be a jerk, Stan."

"What do you want me to do?" he snapped.

"Turn a blind eye."

Burley looked at Decker distastefully, and then reached for a coke from the six-pack and popped it open aggressively, taking a long, thoughtful swig. He winced a little, and then lunged for a remote, turning on the hotel room's TV and popping the volume up a little, just to tune out the muffled noise of his boss screwing the probie.

* * *

She woke up with a start, her eyes flying open heavily and uncomfortably, and she was disoriented—the room was arranged differently, and Decker was lying _way_ too close for comfort. She was on the verge of elbowing him sharply in the ribs when her groggy mind was flooded with reality and she remembered she was in bed with Gibbs.

Naked, entangled, and sinfully, in bed with Gibbs.

Her head spun a little and she felt dizzy. She turned, searching for a clock, and the dim, cheap digital hotel clock told her it was close to four in the morning. She twisted, rolled onto her side, her back to Gibbs, and then she pushed the covers off of her and got out of bed. She spared a glance for her boss, a glance that assured her he was still dead asleep, sprawled on his stomach, and she swiped her panties off the floor, slipping them on.

She picked up her shirt on the way to the bathroom and slipped that on, too, and she waited until the door was shut to turn the light on and meet her own eyes in the smudged, dirty hotel mirror.

Her make-up was blurry, smudged, and framing her eyes in a faded, elderly-raccoon-ish way. Her hair was a decided mess; knotted, flat, in need of a wash. Her eyes were bright, probably left over from the endorphins. Her shirt was wrinkled. Her neck, still bruised the strangulation marks from days ago gone, Rick's hickey hidden by Gibbs' possessive mouth.

She bit her lip, swallowed hard, and turned on the faucet, bringing her hand to her mouth and covering it lightly, her fingers splaying out over her chin and cheeks. She flicked her eyes downward and closed them lightly; her lashes brushed her skin and her shoulders slumped, and she stood very still and, in the moment, hated herself.

The lighting in the bathroom was horrible.

She didn't look good.

She didn't feel good.

She felt like the other woman, though that particular feeling probably stemmed from the obvious, inarguable fact that she _was_ the other woman.

She closed her eyes more tightly, but the only thing she could see reflected to her mind's eye was the simple gold band nestled snugly on his ring finger as he ran his hand over her body; she could feel it catch in her hair and pull a little when he tangled his fingers there, and she could almost taste it; her mouth tasted like metal—as if she were going to be sick.

She fought the feeling down, though, and instead opened her eyes and forced herself to meet her own reflection, and she parted her lips, taking in a deep breath. Her eyes burned painfully and she fluttered her eyelashes, reaching out to cup a handful of cold water and splash it on her face.

She didn't want to see tears on her face; it wasn't her right to cry. She didn't really deserve to cry.

She had spent so much time thinking about sleeping with Gibbs, fantasizing about it, playing their dangerous, seductive games, that she hadn't taken a moment to consider what it would feel like afterwards, when she remembered that he was married to a woman she didn't even know—whose feelings she…

…didn't care about. Jenny wasn't going to kid herself; she didn't _care_ about Diane Gibbs. She didn't even _know_ Diane Gibbs. It might be that realization in itself that made her the sickest and the sorriest; she felt guilty, but only because she knew this was going to be a mess, and she wasn't going to come out of it the clean one.

Jenny splashed her face again, biting her lip, and crying silently, letting it out of her system in a frustrated, annoyed way. She shivered, cold, and her body ached to crawl back into bed with him and fall asleep.

She shouldn't go back to bed.

If she slept with him—if she went back into that room, and fell asleep next to him, that would seal the deal; that would make this an _affair_, rather than just a one-night stand to relieve sexual tension. She couldn't afford to have an affair with her boss. It would be sticky, offensively unprofessional.

She took a deep breath and let it out, her eyes drying a little. She splashed her face and wiped it off, scrutinizing her eyes to ensure that they weren't red. She hated herself for crying over this, for shedding tears over a decision that was hers and a weakness that was her fault and no one else's.

She turned off the faucet, opened the door, and turned off the light.

She went back to bed, and slipped in, fixing the sheets and comforter, and Gibbs shifted, lifting his head and rubbing his jaw, his eyes fixated on her lazily. He didn't say anything, just watched her curl up next to him on her side, and he laid his head back down, eyes closed, and thrust his hand out lazily to rest over her thigh.

She turned onto her back and let his hand slide, resting sleepily between her legs, and she licked her lips, closing her eyes lightly, almost blissfully. She'd gotten it out, she'd thought about it, it was done; back in bed with him, it felt good again.

The phone rang, and it startled her; confused her. There was no explanation for the phone to be ringing at four in the morning.

She reached over and answered it, clearing her throat sleepily.

"Shepard," she said gruffly, her eyes still closed.

There was silence for a moment.

"Can I speak with Agent Gibbs?" Diane asked curtly. Her voice was edgy, icy.

Jenny flinched, and opened her eyes. She cleared her throat again, momentarily disoriented, but it worked to her advantage she sounded like she'd just been woken out of a deep sleep. She shook her head.

"He's in the other room," she muttered smoothly. "Other extension," she clarified.

"I'm sorry to have woken you," Diane said, her voice a little warmer. She sounded like she'd taken a deep breath, too. "So that's four-nine-?"

"Eight," Jenny told her hoarsely.

"Eight," Diane repeated. "Thank you, Agent Shepard."

Jenny nodded; Diane hung up the phone—and Jenny followed suit, smacking it down loudly. She reached over and gripped Gibbs' shoulder, shaking him a little. He grunted at her, exhausted, probably in need of a good night's sleep. She turned her head and met his eyes in the darkness.

"Your wife."

"_What_?"

"She called. Go in Decker's room," Jenny said neutrally. "You need to answer the phone before either of them does."

Gibbs got up without asking her anything else and threw on his jeans—and he was so collected about it, that she almost wondered if he'd done this before.

* * *

Decker shielded his eyes when the phone rang and woke him up; damn Burley had fallen asleep upright with the TV on, and the glow seemed brighter than the flames of hell to his sensitive eyes. He sat up, frowning, and reached blindly for the phone, kicking Stan and chucking the remote at him.

When he picked up the corded phone, he was surprised to find it taken roughly from his hand.

Burley swore, giving Decker a look that could murder and fumbling with the remote.

"Gibbs."

Decker blinked to adjust his eyes and saw Gibbs holding the phone, turning his back to them as he spoke into it in his usual hollow, mechanical way.

"What the hell is going on?" Burley asked groggily, flicking off the television and flopping down unhappily.

"Diane, it's four in the morning," Gibbs growled, and Decker turned away, lying on his back, keeping his mouth shut and sticking to his _it's none of our business_ guns.

* * *

References: NCIS Season 3 Episode "_Kill Ari, Part 2_" ("That second night...), Several Disney movies, _The Wizard of Oz_, _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_.

_Thank you all so much for your feedback thus far. Keep it coming; I love hearing what you think & you're all so sweet and encouraging!  
__-Alexandra_


	10. Peacock Bites

_A/N: To all of you, faithful readers, I wish a Happy New Year: Come at us, 2013. _

_And so, we come to the part of our story where the line has been inarguably and irrevocably crossed (since according to most people who support former president Clinton, eating isn't cheating *wink*). What will our protagonists (antagonists?) do next?_

_"...and you wonder where we're going; where's the rhyme and where's the reason?" -John Denver; 'Rhymes & Reasons.' [Playlist]_

* * *

_Chapter Nine: Peacock Bites  
_

As far as mornings after went, this was by far the most awkward experience she'd had in her sexual history. It was a minefield of uncomfortable silence and tense, shifty glances, and it began the moment she steeled herself and slipped out of Gibbs' bed, having taken only a sheepish, weak moment to hit snooze on their alarm in an attempt to prolong the oblivion of sleep.

Gibbs got up as she did, clearing his throat and rubbing his jaw, his fingers drawing her attention to the stubble peppering his skin. She blinked and pushed her hair out of her eyes, schooling her features neutrally as she opened the door that connected the two rooms; she heard Gibbs shut the bathroom door as she walked in on Burley and Decker.

Burley looked up as she appeared, and stood—he'd been throwing his badge up in the air, catching it, and repeating the action; it was obvious he'd been waiting for her to get up so he could go get his things from what was his and Gibbs' room.

She couldn't stop the subtle flush that stained her cheeks, but she held her head high and said nothing; she nodded in quick greeting to Decker, and strode into the bathroom, slamming the door firmly and turning the shower water on.

Hot; she turned it on scalding hot, hot as it could be, and she opened her mouth under the cleansing spray and closed her eyes and let the steam and wetness soak her hair and her skin.

* * *

_Hot_ was the only way to describe things lately, and she'd never really noticed there were so many connotations of that simple little three letter word—she, a woman who'd studied English Literature and had a _penchant_ for the subtlety in words.

It was hot in the hotel room as the team gathered for a debriefing, a stuffy, sickish sort of hot that put a damper on any good mood anyone might have been in. It was nothing compared to the sweltering humidity they were going to be stuck in when the four of them crammed into the stakeout room later, but it wasn't pleasant.

And of course, there was the added awkwardness of Decker and Burley both pretending not to notice that their boss had slept with their coworker, and Gibbs and Jenny resolutely carrying on as if absolutely nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Decker held out his hand, a crinkle forming between his brows.

"What are the instructions from Morrow?" he asked, confused.

"Wait until we see an exchange of either cash or merchandise," Gibbs answered.

"Merchandise being what, monkeys? Zebras?" asked Burley, snorting and shaking his head. "What if we just see Fitzgerald down there with 'em? That proves nothing."

"Yes it does," Jenny spoke up.

"It doesn't," Burley snapped back, glaring at her. "Him just being there doesn't prove he's involved, it means he's taken a more aggressive approach."

"Either way, it puts him in a guilty compromised position," Jenny responded coolly, remaining calm even in the face of Stan's acidity. "His orders were to watch and gather information, just like us. Approaching or getting involved is a breach of his orders."

"Still doesn't make him guilty," grumbled Burley.

"C'mon, Stan, all the evidence says Fitzgerald's been bought by these smugglers," Decker said, while Gibbs watched the exchange with mild, silent annoyance. "Why're you so against believin' the Intel?"

Burley gave a sour shrug.

"I know the man, okay?" he muttered. "We play poker sometimes. He's a great guy. Great wife, great kids."

"Wouldn't be the first great guy to do something dirty," Jenny said briskly. "The name Richard Nixon ring any bells?"

Burley looked at her coldly, but had no response—and Gibbs took the reins back.

"You guys done questioning the director's instructions?" he asked curtly, obviously not expecting an answer. After a short, impatient glare to them all, he began doling out and clarifying instructions.

"Agent Fitzgerald thinks we're arriving tonight to help him start surveillance on this group. He has no idea we've already been watching, we know he's a part of it, and we've got eyes and ears in the place now," Gibbs explained gruffly. "Decker and Burley watched the shipment come in last night, and we have a source that says there's an exchange happening about fifty minutes north of here around four o'clock, so their meet with Fitzgerald has to be between noon and three."

He paused, waiting for questions.

"We stake-out the meet from our room, approach only when we see an exchange, bust the operation. Fitzgerald will flip for anyone we don't bust on site."

"Can you be sure?" Jenny asked skeptically.

Gibbs smirked at her, and didn't answer.

He cocked his head towards the door and pointed.

"Go," he said. "Take your positions," he paused and gestured at Shepard, tossing her his wallet. "Pick up coffee," he ordered gruffly, hardly lookin her in the eye. She nodded, businesslike, and cleared her throat, slipping past them all.

Gibbs ignored Burley and Decker's covert looks, intently focused on the case for the moment—was he sure Fitzgerald would flip, Shepard had asked.

Of course the little shit was going to flip on his comrades; once a traitor—always a traitor.

* * *

Jenny patiently held out a cup of coffee to Burley, who looked at it with distaste.

"I really can't drink hot coffee right now," he said, shaking his head and turning her down. She rolled her eyes and offered the cup to Decker, who also made a face and declined. The redhead narrowed her eyes, and passed Gibbs his rather large, steaming cup of Jamaican blend. She balanced the coffee tray in one hand and chucked his wallet at his chest, glaring.

"Why'd you send me for coffee if you're the only one drinking it in this weather?" she asked.

Gibbs flicked open his wallet and checked his cash pocket.

"You used my money to buy this?" he asked.

She stared at him.

"Yeah."

"Dammit, Shepard, I gave you my wallet to pay for _mine_."

"Well, _sir_, you didn't specify that," Jenny responded brightly, setting the two hot cups that should belong to Decker and Burley aside. She plucked her iced concoction out of the cup holder and clamped her lips on the straw brazenly, popping her eyebrows at him.

Gibbs turned steely eyes on the two males.

"Drink it," he ordered severely.

Burley and Decker scrambled to grab their previously declined cups of coffee and thank Gibbs for his generosity in mumbling, slightly simpering tones. Gibbs rolled his eyes, shoving his wallet back into his back pocket. Jenny smirked and shrugged her shoulders, looking at the hard line of his jaw, the familiar chiseled lines of his profile as he glared away from her.

She found herself distracted.

"Look at that, already like a married couple," muttered Burley under his breath, and that snapped Jenny out of her reverie.

She started towards him aggressively, and Gibbs shook his head slightly.

"Don't touch 'im, Jenny," he ordered bluntly. He chucked a pair of binoculars at Burley and pointed to the window. "Eyes on the deal, Steve," he instructed, gesturing for Decker to pick up and do the same.

Burley grumbled something about his name being 'Stan' and focused on his work. Jenny crossed the room gingerly, trying to avoid all the equipment and long legs as she came to stand next to Gibbs.

"What's my job?" she asked.

Gibbs looked at her. He smiled slightly, but it was gone in an instant; he pointed flippantly to the headset and bulky laptop and the mechanical readings on it.

"Tech stuff," he grunted. "See what you can hear through the bugs."

She nodded and sat down, tripping over Decker a little and then accidentally kicking Stan in the ribs. She apologized, flushed, and swore about the stupid size of the room—the heated proximity it placed everyone in.

The only thing she had to be thankful for right now was the fact that they were deep into the denouement of this stake out case, and she didn't really have a spare moment to consider what had happened last night with Gibbs—Jethro?—Gibbs.

* * *

The cold metal of her Sig Saur brushed her bottom lip as she held the weapon tight, fingers coiled professionally around the handle, index finger poised delicately over the trigger. She touched her ear, waiting for Gibbs' word.

Gibbs was in the stake out room, on the phone with Fitzgerald, being fed blatantly false information while he slightly distracted the turncoat NCIS agent, waiting for the perfect moment to signal for his team to burst into the warehouse and topple the trading ring. It wasn't the best situations—three agents on three visible criminals, with no way of knowing if the bad guys had back-up hidden around the contraband crates of critters.

"Decker," Gibbs' voice crackled to life over the earwigs. "Go in quietly from the back," he instructed, waiting a few moments. "Shepard, Burley, go in loud, from your positions."

Static, and then Burley spoke:

"How loud?" he asked.

Jenny grinned.

"Guns-blazing," she whistled quietly. "Yippi-ki-yay, motherfuckers."

Burley snickered.

"On my mark," Gibbs growled, pausing. "_Go_."

* * *

"NCIS!"

"HANDS IN THE AIR!"

Jenny's knee throbbed painfully in the aftermath of her kicking the door open. It wasn't as effortless as action movies made it seem; even a well-placed, successful kick sent a jolt of unpleasant pressure up the leg and settled into the muscle and bone for a moment. She swallowed the discomfort and trained her weapon on the closest smuggler—just her luck, the biggest one.

Agent Fitzgerald, NCIS agent turned smuggler, let out a surprised yelp, his eyes going wide, and held up his hands in a panic.

"Traitor!" shouted Burley's smuggler, turning a violent glare on Fitzgerald and thrusting his fist out in rage. He didn't appear to have a weapon—and didn't appear to care about Burley's as he lunged at Fitzgerald and knocked him to the ground.

"I'm not a traitor!" shouted Fitzgerald desperately.

Burley brought his foot down on Fitzgerald's shoulder, pinning him, and trained his gun on the unarmed assailant.

"Maybe not to this dick," Burley said, gesturing at the smuggler. "You're a traitor to NCIS."

Fitzgerald flinched.

Jenny, meanwhile, was faced with the smuggler who did, in fact, have a weapon—though it was holstered at his waist, she could immediately tell it was more powerful than hers. There was crackling and muffled talking in her ear; the sound of Decker scuffling with someone around the other side of one of the crates.

"I hope you brought back-up, Princess," the smuggler said, taking a few steps towards Jenny.

She just raised her eyebrows. He had no chance of getting to his gun before she could put a bullet between his eyes—

-then again, she hadn't been expecting him to just boldly _grab her gun out of her hands_.

The rough motion jammed her finger and she swore, eyes going wide. She should have had a better grip on her Sig, but then again, how many boneheads took a chance and decided to yank a cop's gun away? She had about five seconds to make a move before this guy had her own weapon pointed at her skull, so she moved.

She ducked, and he fired a shot right over her head.

Jenny shouted for Burley's attention, in case the gunfire hadn't gotten it, and he turned around to point his gun at her attacker. The guy lunged towards Jenny, towering over her, and she probably would have had no chance if she hadn't gotten lucky in using her height _dis_advantage against him; she crouched, wrapped her hands around his knee, and slammed him to the concrete floor onto his back.

With a cold hollow click, Decker appeared, the barrel of his gun held against the man's temple.

"Sorry I'm late," he muttered, holding up his wrist and showing some knife gashes in his clothing. "They had someone guarding the back," he muttered, tossing Burley his pair of handcuffs.

Burley incapacitated the smuggler, and Jenny grabbed her cuffs out of her belt to do the same to the big guy at her feet.

"Nice takedown," complimented Decker, putting his weapon away.

"Don't," Jenny said, shaking her head. She pointed at his holster. "We need to clear the warehouse," she muttered, giving the guy a good whack on the head just for good measure. She smiled and patted his cheek in a sweet, patronizing manner. "You shoulda brought back-up, Princess," she cooed.

Jenny stood up and made a motion with her hand.

"Gibbs has local LEOs on the way," Burley said, his hand at his ear. "He's on his way down."

"Watch out, wandering 'round these crates," hissed one of the smugglers. He gave Jenny and ominous grin. "It's a jungle in here."

* * *

It had never occurred to Jenny that she was afraid of peacocks. In retrospect, she wasn't sure if she had always had some latent fear of the proud birds or if her encounter in the warehouse had simply convinced her she possessed an inherent fear of them that was just waiting to be awakened.

The bottom line was, she might never have known she would react so negatively to peacocks if she hadn't been going about her clearing of the smuggler's warehouse in such a laid back manner.

She held her gun firmly, but it was in a relaxed position at her side; she wasn't aiming to kill any animals, just make sure nothing untoward or dangerous was out of its cage. If she had to shoot a cheetah, she would—if there were cheetahs—but she really wasn't expecting anything to be loose.

She underestimated the perseverance of peacocks in poorly made wooden crates.

Jenny had just cleared the back of the warehouse, and turned to exit the little alley of crates she'd just explored when she found her way blocked by one of the exotic, colourful birds. The thing startled her immediately by rapidly spreading its full plumage out and instantly making itself look three times as large. Fanning its feathers also happened to sort of block her exit.

Jenny stared balefully at the bird and walked towards it, hardly considering fear, assuming she'd just shout a little at it and it would scuttle away.

However, she was wrong; she had only taken three steps when the peacock let out a horrid war cry and lurched towards her, one clawed foot lifted high in the air. Surprised, Jenny swore in a high-pitched squeal and scuttled back—only to find another peacock staring down at her from atop a stack of crates.

This one, too, fanned out its eerie feathers and peered down at her, black eyes murky and foreboding. Jenny stood still for a moment and then started to raise her gun, seriously considering shooting the damn things. The one on the ground squawked and lunged at her again.

The one on the crate darted towards her and she leapt back. The one on the ground went for her ankles, feathers quivering in aggression.

She kicked, which only made it angry, and then resorted to the only thing that might possible make them stop—

-she screamed at the top of her lungs.

* * *

"Are there animals in _all_ these damn crates?" Decker asked, brushing off his jeans as he examined one of the biggest, one stamped with a giant red FRAGILE warning.

Burley just shook his head, frowning over the inventory list and other papers he'd found abandoned on top of one of the crates.

"Son of a bitch," he murmured. "Gibbs, they've got everything from rare anacondas to freakin' baby Bengal tigers."

Gibbs rubbed his forehead, mumbling something about a huge mess. He came up to Burley, holding his hand out for the inventory clipboard, when Shepard's scream pierced the air.

Instead of bolting after the sound, weapons raised, the three men paused and turned in the direction of the noise. Burley raised his eyebrows, looking a little uncertain. Their confusion was due to the fact that the nature of her scream was…almost comical.

Shepard didn't sound as if she were in jeopardy and she didn't sound injured, she just sounded slightly hysterical and annoyed; it was difficult to explain. When she screamed again, Decker held out his hands as if to ask _why the hell_ no one was responding towards her, and started off in her direction.

Gibbs and Burley dropped the clipboard and went off after him.

* * *

It was a darkly comical sight.

Jenny had managed to scramble up on top of one of the crates, high off the ground, and was being hounded by two fully-grown male peacocks. She was pale, obviously distressed, and kicking at the one every time it got near her. Decker stood uncertainly near her, and the moment Burley saw what was going on, he hunched over in laughter, cackling madly while grasping his ribs.

"Do something!" snapped Jenny, her voice rising. "Get the damn things away from me!"

She yelped when one of them made a horrid screeching noise again.

"I think they like you," Decker commented, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yeah, Shepard, they might be tryin' to mate with you," Burley sniggered, stepping forward.

"Gibbs!" shouted Jenny, turning a vicious look on him. "Shoot them!"

"You shoot 'em, Jenny!" Decker responded seriously.

"They took my gun!" she wailed, pointing to the ground.

Bastard Peacock Number One had knocked it from her unprepared hand when he'd tried to violently bite her face off. At least, that's what she was going to assume it was trying to do.

Decker pulled his weapon from his side.

"Hold it," Gibbs said, looking at him sharply. "You can't just shoot 'em, they're evidence."

Jenny held up a fist, in which she clutched a few peacock feathers.

"Here's your goddamn evidence—just get them away from me!" she demanded.

"Looks like Jenny can't handle a couple a cocks," Burley teased, snickering, his eyebrows going up. Decker laughed, still holding his weapon up a little more, a smirk crossing his lips.

Gibbs delivered a heartily deserved _smack_ to the back of Burley's head, but Burley was too proud of his little jibe to feel the pain.

Jenny's face took on a curious mixture of 'scared' and 'pissed' and she shot Burley a vicious, scalding look—but before she could get out her well-phrased comment about exactly how well she could handle her cocks, the one closest to her lunged again and she scrambled away, another scream ripping from her throat. She flailed her legs.

"JETHRO!" she screamed hoarsely, her voice desperate.

"Well, that sounds familiar," Stan muttered under his breath—and he was lucky only Decker heard it.

Gibbs rolled his eyes at her shriek of his name. He squared his jaw and looked around, trying to decide what to do. He still had his cuffs on him, as he was the only one who had not had to use them on a suspect. He yanked them out of his belt and chucked them at Burley who caught them, surprised.

"Uh, Gibbs…?" he questioned.

Gibbs grunted and gestured for him to shut up. He grit his teeth and started towards the peacock. The sound of his feet alerted it, and it turned, making that ridiculous noise again and flaring its feathers at him. He looked it dead in the eye, like he would a hunting dog he was training, and then grabbed it around the neck—quick as lightening, before it could bolt.

"Cuffs," he demanded, and Burley handed them back. Gibbs slung one of the cuffs around the animal's neck and then, in a manner that was rough but not cruel enough to kill, he pulled the peacock over to a crate and forced it into Decker's apprehensive hands while he went back for the other one.

He put a foot up on a crate close to the ground and jumped up, closing his hands around this peacock's neck as well and yanking it down from it's perch, effectively saving Jenny and looking thoroughly ridiculous in the process. He snapped the other cuff around this one's neck and left the two birds on the ground, squawking and screeching, unable to get far.

"Call animal control," he barked, irritated. He had a few of the damn feathers sticking to his shirt and neck.

Burley leapt to it, getting far away from the birds. Jenny stood atop the tower of three large crates she was on and bent her knees.

"Hey," snapped Gibbs, shaking his head. "Don't jump, you'll break your legs," he growled, smacking his hand on a crate a step down. "C'mere," he ordered neutrally.

She stepped down near his hand and he reached for her, holding her fingers tightly and helping her jump down lightly so she wouldn't injure her ankles or knees. He caught her around the waist and set her feet on solid ground. She leaned back against the crate and couldn't help the smirk that fought across her mouth.

His knees barely brushed her thighs and she pursed her lips just a little; he let his hand slide off her hip just a little too slowly—and she was on the verge of a low, risqué comment when Decker cleared his throat.

"Hey, Boss," he said airily, though it was clear he was uncomfortable and serious. "Cool it," he muttered, almost to himself.

The look on Gibbs' face was stony and murderous, but Decker was man enough to take it—he just shrugged helplessly and looked at them as if to say: _for Christ sake, don't let Burley see you. _

And in a snap, it was back to business.

* * *

"We here for another night?" Jenny asked as she packed up her share of the equipment.

From her crouching position on the floor, she could see no part of Gibbs but the cuffs of his jeans and his shoes, and his voice was muffled when he answered.

"Leavin' tomorrow afternoon," he said gruffly. "Got to do some damage control first," he grumbled. His feet moved away and Jenny went back to neatly folding up all the wires and placing them in their respective felt slots in the metal boxes.

The little room fell to only the noise of packing up for a moment and Jenny bit the inside of her cheek. With surveillance done and nothing much to do but cleanup, coordination with Local LEOs, and paperwork, it was going to be slightly awkward to hash out sleeping arrangements tonight.

Would Burley assume she was sleeping with Gibbs now, and take his place with Decker? Did she want him to?

What, indeed, was the proper etiquette for sleeping with someone else's husband when that person's husband was also your boss?

* * *

She was meticulously arranging the equipment by the hotel room door when Burley appeared next to her, arms folded.

"Gibbs says we can have the night," he said, clearly pleased. "You up for drinks downstairs?" he asked, referring to the hotel bar.

"Is Deck going?" Jenny asked.

"Why, afraid to be alone with me?" Burley asked lightly, grinning at her. She looked up at him and rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

"Nah, but I've heard you can't hold your liquor," she said coolly. "And I can't haul your ass back up here by myself."

"Deck has no upper body strength," Burley said, laughing. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "Better drag Gibbs along if you want help."

"Yeah, like that paltry little bar down there carries his brand of alcohol," she scoffed.

"What's his brand?" Stan asked.

She shrugged. She didn't know.

"Better ask Diane," Burley said mildly, and she snapped her neck up, looking at him neutrally. She stood, wincing—she'd been kneeling for too long, and her muscles were stiff. She eyed Burley icily and pursed her lips.

"Why did you say that?" she asked curtly.

Stan shrugged, nonchalant.

"She probably knows," he said airily, waving his hand. He looked over her shoulder as Decker came out of the bathroom, and Jenny pushed past him, feeling like he'd just given her a scalding piece of his mind—when he hadn't really said anything at all.

_She probably knows._

About what, Stan? About the sex? Or about the whiskey?

"Deck, you up for drinks?" Burley asked, moving on, while Jenny pushed her hair back and opened a drawer, pulling out a travel bag where she kept a small first aid kit. Decker agreed loudly, and then they were waiting for her and she shook her head—

"No," she muttered. She wrinkled her nose. "Not up for a hangover," she demurred, and after some friendly teasing about her stamina, they left, and she was alone in the room, and she walked to the bed. She sat on the edge and propped her ankle up on her knee, looking dubiously at the peacock scratches there.

She heard Gibbs moving around heavily in his room. The door was open. He didn't come in, and she poured some antiseptic on the cuts on her foot and winced.

* * *

The idea of hangovers and being carried up to the room was an exaggeration; Decker and Burley were back from their drinks, dinner, and gossip in about two hours, and Gibbs immediately hounded everyone to pack up the cars so they wouldn't have to worry about it tomorrow when everyone just wanted to leave.

His demand had the foresight of a Marine, and yet it reminded Jenny of the way her father used to force her to pack everything the night before they left to go somewhere—whether it was vacation or a move. She smiled, bittersweet at the thought.

"Yeah, okay, _Dad_," grumbled Burley, glaring at Gibbs, obviously more in the mood to relax after dinner.

He earned a head slap for his troubles and, though the slapping of Burley had brought a genuine smile to Jenny's lips, the distinct, fleeting look of pain on Gibbs' face froze her lips a little, and had her looking at him for a brief, startled moment.

Then his eyes met hers, the look was gone, and the bridge of her nose flushed red as she got her part of the things together and followed Gibbs out and in to the hotel elevator, heading down with Burley to the car.

"Hey, leave that open!" Burley called to Decker, who was just about to shut the trunk of one of the cars. Decker nodded and backed up, making room for Burley, while Jenny and Gibbs loaded the drunk of the other car.

"Hey, Captain Rouland called," Decker said, talking loudly to be heard. "The Maryland cop, they've got people we can talk to about sales, witnesses who saw the Marines with animals," Decker listed.

Gibbs nodded, though he said nothing.

Jenny reached past him to adjust something, her breasts pressing against his arm, and he turned his head slightly, stopping and putting his hands on the edge of the trunk. She leaned back, licking her bottom lip, and stepped back, letting him move in front of her to push some boxes toward the back of the trunk.

His shoulder pressed into her stomach and she tilted her head back, a flash of heat rocketing up her spin. She shifted her feet, her foot pressing against his, her knee shoving into the back of his thigh, and she turned her head.

"Rouland is keeping Fitzgerald in custody, yeah?" she asked.

"Yeah," Decker answered, holding the keys in his hand, as he made sure everything was secure in the car.

Jenny nodded, biting her cheek again. She stepped back, and intentionally let her hand brush Gibbs' ass as she did so, her nail snagging just slightly against the stitching on his pocket.

Burley slammed the car trunk shut and lightly smacked the top. Decker locked it, and then yawned, stretching. He rubbed his jaw and shook his head, blinking, and jingled the second set of keys in his hand.

"I'm hittin' the shower," he said tiredly. He tilted his head at Jenny. "Hey, their restaurant downstairs is pretty good. You eaten yet?"

She shook her head, pulling at the collar of her shirt in the heat. She lifted her hand to push her hair back, her eyes drawn to Gibbs' biceps as they flexed when he reached up to shut the trunk. It was like the gun range, when he'd shown her how to shoot, and just the action of adjusting her fingers and pressing against her had lit her up like a bottle rocket.

"Try the room service," Burley recommended, complimentary as Decker was of the food.

"I'm ordering pizza," she said vaguely, waving her hand at him. "I feel like pizza."

"Need beer for pizza," Gibbs grunted, slamming the trunk. She sucked in her breath, watching him as he leaned on it, every move sensual to her. Jesus, she wanted him again and she'd spent all night wrestling him in sheets full of sin and sweat.

"They got beer," Decker said.

Jenny tilted her head back.

"Hey," she called, holding up her palm. Decker sent the keys sailing into her palm, and she tilted her chin up at the boys. "What kind of brew they carry?" she asked.

"Domestics, your basics," Burley answered.

"Corona?" Jenny asked. Decker nodded, and they were headed out of the heat towards the building again.

Jenny smirked, and then turned to the car, reaching out to lock it. Without a word, Gibbs put his hand on her hip, his thumb slipping under her shirt to rub against her bare skin. She didn't say anything either, until he leaned closer.

"Corona?" he asked mildly, with an air of approval.

She nodded, straightening and indulgently pushing his hand away and placing the keys in his palm.

"When I can't get a good German lager," she said smoothly. She smirked. "Mexican beer burns good," she added. Gibbs grinned at her, and just nodded. She turned to walk back to the door of the parking garage, and he followed her closely.

When his proximity led him to step on her heel, she turned around, toe-to-toe and nose-to-nose, and she pulled him closer to the wall, her breath catching huskily in her throat. She gave in to a little weakness, taking advantage of Decker and Burley's absence, and the low groan muffled in the back of his throat told her that the subtle little touch flirting by the car had riled him up, too.

She grabbed his hand, ran her fingers over it, and pushed it into the waistband of her shorts, slipped it into her panties, guiding his hand between her legs so he'd feel it, how wet she was. She gasped, opening her mouth, her top lip touching his nose, and he just kissed her, tongue against her teeth, tracing the contours of her mouth. He cupped his hand, and when he pulled it back and grabbed her hip again, the firm hold made her shirt ride up, and the sensation of his warm, slick fingertips on her skin made her knees nearly buckle for God and the empty parking garage to see.

* * *

Sitting in the passenger seat of the federal car on the way home the next day, Jenny wondered vaguely if Gibbs was as exhausted as she was. Interrogations, paperwork, and coordinating with local LEOs was troublesome, annoying work, and on top of that she had irresponsibly been up all night fooling around with Gibbs.

She leaned against the door of the car now, one hand pressed against her temple, fighting the urge to go to sleep. It was lucky that Burley and Decker seemed to have decided to drive together and keep with the switched rooms; neither had said a word about it. It was almost as if it had been _planned_ that she and Gibbs would hook up on this case.

Well, it wasn't planned, and now she didn't know how the hell she was supposed to handle it.

Gibbs turned the radio on.

She blinked, and then looked over at him in disbelief. She cocked an eyebrow as he screwed around with the radio dial and finally settled on some station playing an old John Denver song.

"I didn't know you liked music," she commented impishly.

He didn't answer. He shrugged.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Shepard," he said gruffly.

She laughed, turning back to the window.

"Profound," she murmured. She bit her lower lip and sucked on it thoughtfully, her eyes drooping lazily. She shifted uncomfortably, ready to be back home. She yawned, focusing in on the music. She sighed quietly, and then pursed her lips.

"Jethro," she asked neutrally.

"What, Jen?" he grunted.

"What happens when we get back to DC?" she inquired mildly.

As unfamiliar as the hot water she was in was, it hadn't burned her yet, and she wasn't so sure she wanted to forget about it; she wasn't so sure she wanted to pretend Maryland had never happened.

Gibbs leaned back, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Paperwork," he answered smoothly; guardedly.

She didn't have the slightest idea how to interpret that, until he reached over and rested his hand on her knee. His fingers curled around her kneecap, squeezing just a little, and she smirked a little, the chaos and confusion in her head eased _just_ a little.

She put her hand over his and closed her eyes.

* * *

He pulled in his drive long past dark. His eyes hurt, his head ached, and his muscles were strained; long stakeout missions were never particularly cozy, and this one had been a whole different kind of bitch.

For a moment, he sat in his federal car, engine and lights off, and looked at his front porch haggardly, his mind hitting about a million different places at once.

_Questions—but what questions? Answers, excuses—act normal—Leroy?—how was your trip, honey—no, not honey, she'll know justsexjustsexahhell_—_stop_.

He didn't even know what he was thinking, it was all so jumbled, but it had to stop before he walked over that threshold.

_That threshold you carried Shannon over, you bastard, what would she think—_

He blinked, and for a minute he saw Shannon and Kelly waving goodbye as he headed off to war. He blinked again, balled his hands into fists, and then yanked his keys from the ignition and got out, silencing his thoughts and walking stoically up the sidewalk, up the steps, and into the house.

* * *

He kicked his shoes off and slammed the door; Diane's red head peeked into the hall from the kitchen. She lifted an eyebrow, busy munching on a slice of apple, and retreated without saying anything.

Either she was intent on chewing, or she wasn't speaking to him.

He couldn't decide which one he wanted.

He stepped just inside the kitchen and threw his badge, keys, and wallet on the counter near hers, rubbing his forehead tiredly after he emptied his pockets. He turned, touched Diane's bare shoulder, and leaned in to brush his lips cordially against her cheek. She paused, skeptical, and then snorted when he pulled away stiffly and turned on his heel.

"I missed you, too, sweet cheeks," she said sarcastically.

"I need a shower," he growled under his breath, stalking off towards the bedroom bath.

He stripped off his clothing, holding his shirt in his hand as the water warmed. He smelled the collar, narrowing his eyes—did he smell like Jenny? He didn't know; he was used to that perfume of hers. Wait; Diane said he always smelled like Jen now.

_Shepard_, he tried to remind himself.

_You can't fuck her and then call her 'Shepard' you son of a bitch,_ another part of him fired back.

Gibbs stared at the water temperature control for a good two minutes, unable to decide if he needed a hot shower or a cold one. He settled on lukewarm.

_You can't have both._

He made sure to get soap in his eyes, because the irritating burn and sting made him stop thinking—that, and five minutes in to his dreadful shower, his wife barged in and ran the sink for her toothbrush.

"Leroy," she began, raising her voice over the din of the water. She flicked the faucet off, and spoke through her toothbrush. "Inickedoreduck," she finished.

"What?" he asked gruffly, unable to understand her.

She shifted her toothbrush—he saw her moving through the transparent shower curtain, and tried again.

"I nicked your truck," she informed him.

She didn't bother to attempt to sound sorry about it.

He pulled open the shower curtain to look at her, in the middle of running soap through his hair. He gave her a vague sort of annoyed look, miffed by the subtle undertone of pleasure in her voice, but he found he didn't even have it in him to be angry. He was just dully interested in how the hell that had happened—she'd only had the damn truck to drive to the airport, and home when she got back from Seattle.

"How?" he asked bluntly.

"Backing out of Reagan's parking garage," she answered. "Wasn't paying attention, hit a pole."

He frowned to himself. The truck was old anyway. She still had that annoying air of pride somewhere in her voice. She was glad she'd put a nick in his good old truck, and she was enjoying telling him about it.

_Distance makes the heart grow fonder, my ass_, he thought.

She was bitterer than when she'd left; and he was a million _more_ miles away.

He went back to shampooing his hair and shrugged, though she couldn't see it.

"If you wanted to take it out on the truck, you coulda just hit it with a baseball bat," he said balefully.

"It?" she repeated, quoting him. She laughed, the water ran again, and he heard her drop her toothbrush back in its metal cup. "What do you think I'm taking out on your truck, Leroy?" she patronized.

"Whatever _it_ is I did to piss you off."

She clicked her tongue.

"I didn't do it on purpose," she said, unconvincing.

"Diane," he growled sensibly. "You don't own a BMW and be the kind of driver who hits a pole."

Her brief silence validated his statement. He heard her shuffling around in the medicine cabinet, clearly not too perturbed by being called out on her deliberate carelessness. He bit his tongue to keep from lashing out with anything else and went on with his shower, this time turning the water to hot, and turning the pressure up. He finished up, and got out after he heard her leave, toweling off.

Hair still damp and a little light headed from the hot steam, he went into the bedroom to grab a pair of underwear and a clean pair of jeans. He felt her looking distastefully at his failure to choose pajamas; she knew it meant he was going to the boat instead of sleeping with her. He didn't say a word as he turned off the bathroom light, and was about to leave without a second word when he remembered that, for all her faults, he was the sinner here.

"Diane," he said roughly, turning in the doorway. He leaned on the doorframe. "How's Rusty?"

She shrugged, slipping reading glasses onto her nose and tucking her hair behind her ears.

"He looks like a heroin addict," she said flatly, a humorless smile touching her lips. "Ironic, since it's AIDS that's killing him."

Gibbs stared at her awkwardly. He had no response.

"Amanda sends her love," Diane muttered, referring to her sister. "The kids say hi, Rusty _claims_ he can kick your ass if he has to," she smiled a little, genuine this time. She stopped and then straightened, meeting his eyes dully. "My mother still hates you," she informed him.

He snorted derisively.

"Never was good with mothers-in-law," he said bitterly.

"She told me to leave you," Diane snapped.

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. Diane started towards him, headed towards a shelf to grab her book. Pissed by her meddling mother's unwanted advice, Gibbs glared at her, his jaw set, suddenly possessive.

"You won't," he challenged viciously, "You can't," he taunted, and she looked at him as if she'd been struck; her cheeks paled. Her eyes lit up with some kind of ominous light and he shifted a little, abashed by his comment.

"Oh, I could," she said softly, but she sounded just a bit unsure of herself—and then he felt guilty, and that channeled into anger, and for a painful moment he was just staring at a woman who'd taken it upon herself to replace Shannon, and he hated her.

"That why you called me drunk the other night?" he goaded.

She whirled on him.

"You mean when that bitch Shepard answered the phone?" she asked aggressively, eyes hardening and flashing. Her lips curled back. "I know I wrote down the right room number, Leroy," she said threateningly.

"She's my partner," he said coldly.

"I'm your _wife_," Diane fired back, just as coldly. "'Til divorce do us part," she snapped bitterly, and smacked her hand against his chest, pushing him back. "Go sleep with your goddamn boat," she hissed, slamming the door in his face.

* * *

"Are the lovebirds in yet?" Burley asked, rather loudly, as he waltzed into the bullpen early the next morning, a bag of McDonald's breakfast in hand.

"Keep your voice down," Decker snapped coolly, deleting a few junk e-mails before he looked up sharply. "Do you have a professional bone in your body?"

Burley shrugged and threw himself down in his chair.

"Hey, Shepard's the one with the unprofessional _bone_ in her body, if you know what I mean," he drawled suggestively, wriggling his eyebrows.

Decker looked at him, far from amused, and gestured to Jenny's desk.

"She's here," he said. "She's dealing with a personnel issue, something about her driver's license. Gibbs isn't here."

Burley paused, surprised. He checked his watch.

"Well, looks like Boss is gonna be late," he said wickedly.

"And you don't have the guts to bust his balls about it," Decker snapped. He glared a little at his colleague. "Look, just don't be an ass about this whole…thing, okay?" he requested tightly.

Burley shrugged.

"I don't get how this works," he hissed. "How do we work with them now?"

Decker threw a hand up.

"What are you talking about, Stan? We haven't even been back a day—you're acting like they walked in wearing matching outfits and asked us to watch them make-out at a crime scene! It's work like every other day is work and we stay the hell out of their business," Decker snapped tersely.

The elevator pinged before Burley could reply, and that instantly ended the conversation—it was obviously Gibbs, and that was proven when the man himself marched in seconds later, cup of coffee in hand. He looked as unimpressed with them as he always did and, after a few minutes settling in, pointed at Shepard's desk.

"Where is she?" he growled.

"Personnel," Burley answered.

He frowned and rubbed his brow tensely, putting his head in his hands for a second.

"Get back to work on the Northman case," he ordered tersely. "We haven't touched it since before Maryland."

Burley straightened up and reached into his desk for the file, and Decker followed suit.

Back to business as usual.

* * *

Margaret Miller blew bangs out of her face with a frown as she attempted to focus her microscope again, eyes focused intently on the droplet of blood on her slide. As quickly as they'd swished away, her bangs fell back into her eyes and she sat back, sighing loudly and looking around.

"Here," a pale hand dangled a bobby pin in front of her, and Miller turned to give her savior a look of gratitude. Jenny was removing the other bobby pin from her hair and shaking it out, releasing it from the half-pinned-back style she'd been wearing it in. "You need it more than I do," the other woman said airily.

Jenny looked at Miller's new haircut appreciatively and winked.

"I love the bangs, though," she complimented.

"Thank you," muttered Miller, messily pinning them back without regard to how silly it looked to cram the smallish hairs into two bobby pins on top of her scalp. She went back to her microscope and continued speaking in a muffled voice. "I don't know how you work with your hair in your face all day."

"I don't, if we're at a crime scene," Jenny answered, "but from a safety standpoint, it's smarter for me to leave my hair down, because if it's in a ponytail it can be yanked or grabbed by a perp, and that could take me down or disarm me."

"Never thought about it that way."

Jenny shrugged.

"Not many women do."

"Isn't having your hair off your collar sort of a protocol for female agents?" Margaret asked.

"It's recommended," Jenny replied, waving her hand. She rolled her eyes. "But men don't ever really consider what women have to do in terms of self-defense and safety precautions."

"Well, if _they_ go walkin' down the street with a ponytail, no one's going to grab them and rape them in a back alley," Miller snorted derisively.

"Precisely," Jenny answered, strolling around the lab. "Have I been friendly enough with small talk?" the redhead asked.

"You're here to bug me about the Northman case?" Miller asked.

"On Gibbs' behalf," Jenny said gallantly. "You know I'd never bug you."

"Mmm-hmm. Well, a preliminary blood analysis suggests Corporal Northman suffered from Hepatitis C," Margaret said. "His wife's blood is clean of any such pathogen, so it's likely that either he was engaging in extramarital sex—most likely with a man—or he was involved in intravenous drug use," Miller looked up at Jenny and raised an eyebrow. "Either thing sound helpful?"

Jenny crossed her arms and tilted her head thoughtfully. After a moment, she just shrugged and let out her breath.

"I don't know; the case details are fuzzy. Need to read back over it," she paused and rolled her eyes. "The monkey business in Maryland kind of turned our heads inside out," she muttered.

"Monkey business?" repeated Margaret slyly. "I heard it was a peacock," she teased.

"Oh, who told you?" Jenny asked, crinkling her nose distastefully.

"Who do you think?" Miller retorted. "Stan seemed to find the image of Gibbs handcuffing some frilly birds together while you screamed on top of some wooden crates totally hysterical."

"Burley has a big mouth," muttered Jenny.

Margaret looked at her neutrally for a moment, her soft and smart eyes studying Jenny intently. Jenny looked back, vaguely wondering what else Stan Burley had confided in his lab-rat lover. The brunette turned back to her analysis coolly and smirked, shrugging her shoulders.

"I'd have liked to see it," she said wryly.

"Shut up," Jenny fired back, smirking. She turned on her heel and then stopped in the doorway. "You know your little boy toy's a lightweight if I ever saw one," she informed the scientist primly.

Margaret nodded.

"I'm well aware of that," she said smugly, and Jenny laughed, unwilling to know what stories were behind Margaret's knowledge of Stan's drinking capabilities.

Armed with the shallow report on Corporal Northman's Hepatitis infected blood, Jenny exited the lab and called the elevator for the squad room. It was rounding on ten o'clock and she hadn't checked in with Gibbs or the team yet, she'd dealt with Personnel all morning and then slunk down to the lab like a coward—and off she went now, setting her jaw and strengthening her resolve, to get a feel for what it was like to be back in the bullpen after the Affair in Maryland.

* * *

Frustrated and distracted, Diane Gibbs fought her way through the lunchtime crowd of a popular Georgetown restaurant, scanning the tables intently for a glimpse of the friend she was meeting. From a more secluded area in the back, her companion waved her over, and with a smile of relief, Diane relaxed and made her way with purpose to the table.

"Sorry I'm late," she apologized, frowning as she sat down across from one of her closest friends.

Emma Pierce waved her hand as if Diane's tardiness were nothing. She smiled, flashing teeth that were white as snow but crooked as if she'd given braces a big 'fuck you', and leaned forward to rest her chin on her hand.

"Something dramatic and exciting happen with one of your patients?" Emma asked, her earthy brown eyes sparkling.

Diane laughed, shaking her head.

"Hardly," she muttered. "Water," she said to the waiter, as he dropped by quickly to take her drink order. Sighing, Diane shook her head. "There was some sort of traffic accident in DuPont circle," she complained.

"Isn't there always?" Emma asked, taking a drink of her tea.

Tall, athletic, and imposing, Emma was one of Diane's closest friends; their ties went as far back as high school. Emma was a striking woman, with skin that had the _café au lait_ allure of a child born of interracial parents and long, rigidly wavy hair that she dyed platinum blonde just for the hell of it. She was a lacrosse player with a curvy build, and she could always be counted on to give Diane the bluntest, cruelest honest opinion.

Diane flipped over her lunch menu and looked over the options, suddenly consumed by how hungry she was.

"How are things in the physical therapy world?" Emma asked.

"Not very therapeutic," muttered Diane.

"It's been ages since we've done this."

"Yeah, sorry about that."

"Having a husband really keep you that busy?"

Diane laughed, looking up and arching an eyebrow.

"Typical Em, blame the man," she teased.

"Your Leroy's the reason you dropped off the planet."

"So what, you think I should try women?"

"Works for me," Emma said slyly, and Diane laughed again, shaking her head in amusement. She pushed her menu aside, making her decision quickly, and then leaned back, swallowing down a mouthful of water.

"I just got back from Seattle," Diane said.

"How's ol' Rusty?" Emma asked politely.

"He's not good, Em," Diane answered, her smile fading a little, "and you know, his kids are just so young," she murmured. Emma gave her a sympathetic smile and patted her hand, pushing her hair behind her ears. There was nothing she could say and she knew it, so she just silently comforted.

"Speaking of kids," Emma began.

"Let's not," Diane interrupted, shaking her head, disgruntled. "That's not happening."

"No?"

"Leroy doesn't want any."

"Well," Emma said with a shrug, "in all fairness, you said you didn't want any either. It sucks, but you can't really be pissed at him for not hanging his mind when you did."

"That's not even the half of it," growled Diane.

But the waiter had returned, and the venting she wanted to do—the advice and opinions the second Mrs. Gibbs was seeking—would have to wait until their meal had arrived.

* * *

Emma frowned as she polished off the last of her tea and spread her hands out in a helpless gesture.

"Diane, if you need a lawyer," she said, trailing off. She pointed a finger at herself and Diane rolled her eyes pessimistically.

"You're a corporate defense lawyer," she informed Emma.

"I know what I am, my student loans remind me every day," the blonde fired back. "I'm saying I'd make an exception to help separate you from that _ass_ you married."

"He's not an ass."

"He's a goddamn _ass_, Di," snapped Emma. "I know love blinds and all of that nonsense, but what happened to the Diane who was all loud and proud all the time about taking shit from no man? He's giving you _shit_."

Diane frowned, a little nettled by the accusation that she was letting some guy walk all over her. That's not how she felt about the situation—at least, it sometimes wasn't how she felt.

"Em, it's not that simple, he's not a bad guy."

"You're not giving me a _peachy keen_ picture of him, sweetie," Emma retorted. "Look, I know I'm who you vent to, but all I hear is how much _bullshit_ he makes you put up with, and I can't stand it. He's. An. _Ass_," she reiterated pointedly.

"That's just it!" Diane insisted, throwing her hand out desperately. "He's _not_ an ass. I've done the asshole thing, I've dated the asshole! Leroy isn't _that_ guy—I can't explain what the _hell_ Leroy is."

"A month ago, you call me and say you think he's cheating, and now you're defending," Emma said skeptically.

"I confronted him about that," Diane said. "He's not cheating."

"Because men _never_ lie about _cheating_."

"He _doesn't_ lie, though, Emma, I'm tellin' you," Diane swore. "If he doesn't want to hurt me or he doesn't want to 'fess up to something, he just stays silent and looks at me, or he tells me half truths—he looked me dead in the eye and said he wasn't having an affair. He _wasn't_ lying."

"What do you want me to say?" Emma asked, shrugging unhelpfully. "Ultimately, it's up to you. You don't sound happy."

"You think I should walk away?" Diane asked, tilting her head.

Emma sighed. She chewed on her lip, and then leaned in close.

"I don't know _what_ I think. My girl isn't like this, but I reckon I'd still love her if she was, and I can't say I'm one hundred percent sure I'd walk away from her but," Emma paused, looking at Diane intently, "as the one who's thinkin' with her head here, as the one with an outside opinion on your marriage…Diane, he's not good for you. But I can't tell you to leave him. I can't even tell you I _think_ you should leave him. You have to do what makes you happy."

"I love him, Emma," Diane said softly.

"Yeah, well, that's a bitch," the blonde replied. "I never did like those Beatles for saying all you need is love," she said sardonically, "because you can love someone with all your heart, and that doesn't mean it's happily ever after."

Diane leaned away from Emma, tilting her head, her lips pursed thoughtfully. She let her friends' words sink in, mulling over the summer, the state of her marriage since Kyle Boone had been caught—the unpredictable fluctuations in Leroy's behavior.

She reached up and sighed, rubbing her temple, exhausted by the conversation. She had been around too much anti-Leroy poison in Seattle; she was stressed about Rusty. She needed to calm down, take a step back, and give Leroy another chance.

It wasn't over yet.

* * *

"Burley," Gibbs said gruffly, as the younger agent was packing up his things to leave. "You and Decker go straight to the airport to pick up Mrs. Northman tomorrow," he ordered. "Don't come here first. I don't want her to have any time to prepare."

"No problem, Boss," Burley answered, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "Hey, Deck," Burley said playfully, as he caught up with his partner leaving. "You like those little scones from Starbucks, right?"

"You better not break into my apartment again, Burley…"

The men's conversation trailed off, and Jenny grinned at the muffled friendly arguing she heard as they got into the elevator. She leaned back in her chair and tilted her head back, closing her eyes against the fluorescent ceiling lights and stretching. With only unsolved cases and paperwork to focus on all day, her muscles were bothering her from being cramped up.

"Desk work," she muttered, straightening a little and putting the tip of her shoe on her desk. "We should've stayed in Maryland."

Gibbs laughed, and looked up at her, and she belatedly caught the implication of her statement and flashed him a smile that had a shadow of uncertainty to it. His eyes just met hers brazenly and he went back to whatever he was working on.

In the silence, a flood of awkwardness seemed to just wash over Jenny—something that had happened several times today—and following that was a barrage of feelings that ranged from indifference to panic to injured anger. She ran her fingers through her loose hair, swearing under her breath as she remembered she'd given her bobby pins away, and she sat forward.

"We done for the day?" she asked abruptly.

He looked up, mildly surprised.

"We're never _done_," he retorted vaguely.

Vaguely _infuriating_.

She glared at him and stood up, a hand falling unconsciously to her hip.

"You know what I mean, Jethro," she snapped.

"Go home," was his neutral response, and he nodded, and she was more caught off guard and confused by that.

It wasn't that she heartily desired to be his _mistress_ or anything of the sort, but she had the horrible feeling that he'd just used her in Maryland because she was there, and though she had no right to him, it hurt somewhere deep inside of her—because when it came to sex, she wanted to be the one doing the using. She wanted to be in control.

She swore silently again and gathered her things, her hair falling in her face messily. Straightening, she stalked around her desk, ready to storm out of the bullpen without looking back, feeling childish and guilty and screwed over, when he raised his voice and called her name.

And not just her name, her _nick_name.

"Jen."

She turned.

She met his eyes; he didn't say anything. This was Gibbs; of course he wasn't going to say anything. But his look was reassuring somehow, though she couldn't explain why the hell she thought so. It was like—it was like—she struggled to find something to compare it to, and like some foolish teenage girl, she thought of _Dirty Dancing_, and that moment in the morning after when Baby had just said '_Johnny_!' and he looked at her and everything had been okay.

Jenny narrowed her eyes, and walked to his desk, her fingertips trailing along the surface.

"Gibbs," she said, quietly, almost exasperated. "Are you going home?" she asked, and arched one of her eyebrows, and his eyes followed the movement.

He looked at her distastefully, his mouth taught and his jaw locked. He didn't want to go home; she could see that. He would sit here stalwartly, all night, until he could be sure his wife was asleep. She wondered why that woman made him so miserable, and her heart throbbed against her chest. She pursed her lips, looking at him intently still, and a little frustrated by his failure to communicate, she leaned forward, her face closer to his.

She lowered his voice.

"Are you waiting for an invitation, Jethro?" she asked huskily. Is that what he wanted, permission to come over and fuck her? He knew were she lived. Jenny paused and shook her head a little, as if exasperated. "You've stayed the night before," she reminded him bluntly, and pulled back, and turned on her heel.

She went to the elevator, and stepped on.

Ball was in his court, and she didn't spare a minute to let herself think about what kind of player she was in this game.

* * *

Noemi, that was her name. Noemi, Jenny's Latina housekeeper, was just leaving when Gibbs turned off his car in her drive, and the woman paused curiously and waited on the porch as he slowly approached. She smiled at him and then held up her finger, opening the front door again.

"_Senora_!" she called into the house. "_Senora_?"

"Noemi, I really can do my laundry myself," came Jenny's mild answer.

"_Si_, _Senora_, _si_, but you have visitor," Noemi answered.

There was a brief silence.

"Well, I can do him myself, too," Jenny answered, and Noemi smiled and blushed, gesturing for Gibbs to enter. He nodded to her politely, and listened to her shut the door firmly behind him, no doubt scandalized. He stood at the foot of Jenny's stairs for a minute or two. She appeared at the top, leaning over the banister, her hair pulled back.

"Don't be shy, Jethro, you've been in my mouth," she said tartly.

She jerked her head towards her bedroom; he arched a brow at her and let the smirk hit his lips. There was something unspeakably raw and enchanting about Jenny; something that was bold and aggressive and at the same time inexplicably insecure.

"Take your shoes off," she said, and disappeared towards her room.

He did; and he took the stairs two at a time, suddenly fiercely attracted to her, wanting her like he'd wanted her in those tumultuous weeks leading up to Maryland. He pushed open her bedroom door violently and let his eyes roam over her and ravage her silently from head to foot; it didn't matter that she was wearing an old t-shirt and cotton shorts.

The cotton shorts hit the floor.

* * *

His mouth hit hers hard. Hard, but this time with less urgency than had been present in the hotel room. This time, there was no chance of Decker or Burley barging in and catching them. They were dangerously alone and there was nothing to stop them, except a woman with a diamond promise, a woman whom neither of them were thinking about.

His hands were running over the backs of her thighs, pulling her hips against him—as if for some bizarre reason he thought he had to hold her there—and when he trailed his kisses to her throat, she tilted her head back and gasped, and she remembered how it had felt to have him inside her, and she wanted that again, and this time, he was going to _wait_ for her.

His hands, rough but gentle, traced up her spine, knitted into her hair, and then cupped her neck and her cheeks; he slid his fingers back near her ears, stroking the nape of her neck, and that damn piece of haunting gold on his left ring finger caught against her pearl stud earrings and she hissed.

She pulled back, winching at the uncomfortable tug of pain, and he pulled his hand away.

Jenny reached up and knocked his hand away from her shoulder; she removed her earrings and moved away, tossing them into a bowl on her bedside table. He came up behind her and she turned, put her foot between his, and pushed him onto her bed, crawling over his legs and settling herself low on his hips.

She bit her lip tightly and threaded her hand into his, her fingers struggling with his wedding band.

"Take it off," she muttered, her lips brushing his neck. "Take it _off_, Gibbs," she demanded sharply, pulling roughly towards his knuckle. He sat up, his arm going around her waist tightly, and he held her flush against him as he deftly deposited the gold ring on her bedside table.

His hands went under her t-shirt, stroking her soft, heated flesh, and she threw herself into kissing him, her mouth on his mouth, and it was so wickedly good that she smirked, thinking only in the moment.

She moved her hips against him through her panties and his jeans and he groaned, the vibration of it muffled in her throat.

She tilted her head back, her eyes half-closed.

"Jethro," she panted. She grit her teeth, her pulse skyrocketing. "God, you're so hard."

It sounded absurd and pornographic even as she said it, but it really set him off.

* * *

It was indescribable.

It felt natural and entirely wrong simultaneously.

It was unlike Maryland; in Maryland they hadn't spoken. In her house, in her bed, there was a palpable difference. He seemed—Gibbs seemed—almost relaxed. He leaned against her headboard, his eyes half-closed, worn-out, and his thumb and forefinger rubbed absently over her shoulder while she lay sprawled out next to him.

Half on her side, half on her back, her head next to his abdomen, her leg thrown over his knees, pulled up so that her thigh was resting intimately close to his groin.

He moved his foot and kicked her discarded t-shirt off the bed.

"You better plan on folding that," she said lazily, propping her head up on one hand.

His thumb stopped running over her clavicle and he snorted.

"Thought you could do your own laundry," he retorted, quoting her words to Noemi.

"There's a difference between ability to and desire to," she fired back.

Jenny sat up, shivering as the covers fell off of her. She crawled over him and slipped out of bed, fetching the shirt, and slipping it on. The image of a Georgia bulldog, the team she'd pledged her fealty to in her Emory days, stretched across her breasts. She slipped her panties back on and fell back into bed, laying on her back next to him.

"Sweat dries," she said distastefully, and shivered again. "Makes me cold."

"Mmm," he muttered, leaning over her, his hand falling to the bulldog. He grinned, and his mouth found hers again, and her spine ached and her stomach fluttered and she sighed into his lips.

She reached up and held his neck in her hands, feeling his pulse throb through his throat, and he laid his hand over hers, squeezing, pulling back with a smirk as his fingers travelled over the raised maze of healing scars on her fingers.

He laughed, and she frowned.

"It isn't funny."

He just snorted again, obviously making fun of her.

"Peacock bites," he drawled, that smug smirk still gracing his lips. "Terrifying birds," he mocked.

"You saw them go after me!"

"They _squawked_," he said skeptically.

"They bit my gun out of my hands," she said fiercely.

"Shouldn't've pulled their feathers out," he retorted.

She punched him with her peacock-scarred fingers. He smirked again and ignored her punching, drawing her shirt up again to look on her abdomen and the low-slung cut of her panties. He parted his lips and bent to kiss her navel, his tongue tracing the hem of her underwear. She tilted her head back into the pillows.

He hooked a finger into the bikini strings of her cotton panties and slid it down her thigh tantalizingly, his mouth still lingering below her bellybutton. She slid her hand down her chest and moved her fingers into his silver hair.

She hated the thought of him stopping what he was doing; she puckered her lips impishly and lowered her voice.

"It was sexy," she purred throatily, flattering him, "watching you handle that cock for me."

He lifted his head slightly, turning towards her, his cobalt eyes flashing and glinting with lust again.

"You mean…peacock, Jen?" he asked coolly, almost innocently.

"Yeah," she agreed wryly. "_Peacock_."

He was a little rougher yanking her panties down this time, and when his kiss touched her thighs, she thought it was about damn time he went down on her.

* * *

She was half-asleep when she felt him moving around. In a state of satisfied, lazy exhaustion, she didn't really bother to find out what the hell he was doing; she waited until it became clear to her. He sat down next to her on the bed and she heard him messing with things on her bedside table.

She opened her eyes and watched him slip on his wedding ring and yawned, still tired, unwilling to wake up lest she lose the ability to get a good night's sleep.

"Jen," he said gruffly.

She mumbled something, and jumped slightly when his hand rested on her lower back, then pulled the covers over her.

"What time is it?" she slurred half into her pillow.

"One," he answered.

She felt him shift, and he stood up, probably pulling his jeans on. She nodded to herself, only vaguely remembering why he had to leave. Oh, right—he was married. His wife. He had to go home and sleep with his wife. Fuzzy stab of jealousy. Sleepy scream of guilt in her mind. Then nothing. She blocked it out, and she looked at him blearily.

"Lock my door," she said huskily.

She sensed rather than saw him nod. His hand moved deliciously on her bare back again and she curled into her covers and pillows and sighed, closing her eyes again and listening to him leave; his footsteps on the stairs, the door opening and clicking and then shutting soundly.

She willfully fell asleep before she had time to let her mind wander to women like Anna Karenina or Hester Prynn.

* * *

References: _Die Hard_ (yippi-ki-yay motherfuckers), The Watergate Scandal (Nixon), John Denver, _True Blood_ (Northman), _Dirty Dancing  
_

_Thanks to Meg & Cassandra for (well, inadvertently) lending me your names._

_Also: LET ME SEE YOUR PEACOCK, COCK, COCK (Hey, Katy Perry's good for somethin' right?)_

_Feedback is appreciated!  
-Alexandra _


	11. the Thorn in his Paw

_A/N: The moral conflict this is causing in all of you DELIGHTS me. /wicked laughter/_

_-Spot the literary device: I foreshadow like it's nobody's business in this chapter_

_Guest appearance from our favorite FBI Supervisory Agent Tobias T. Fornell ! _

_"I don't want to need you, 'cause I can't have you." -Robert Kincaid; The Bridges of Madison County_

* * *

_Chapter Ten: the Thorn in His Paw_

Gibbs didn't miss the look Noemi Cruz shot his left ring finger as she let him into Jenny's brownstone, but when he scrutinized her expression, he found himself looking at an unreadable mask, free of judgment or disapproval. She simply afforded him her usual polite nod of greeting and bustled off; she didn't even express surprise to see him at such an early hour.

He shut the door behind him and strolled up the carpeted stairs with a devil-may-care attitude, casually walking into Jenny's room as if he owned the place. His probationary agent was hidden under all of her covers—no wonder; it was _freezing_ in her room—save for a slender arm that was just in the process of silencing her alarm clock.

Gibbs grinned and pushed off his shoes at the foot of her bed. He crawled over the footboard and crept over her half-awake form like some sort of predatory animal, and it was when he reached for a bunch of tangled red hair that she really woke up and let out a shriek of pure surprise.

Jenny scrambled away and shot up into a sitting position, wincing as she unwittingly wrenched her hair from his grip. She raised her arm in an aggressive movement, but relaxed instantly when she heard his deep laughter and realized quickly that it was Gibbs who'd so rudely interrupted her fifteen-minute snooze button time.

"Jethro!" she shouted hoarsely, curling her hand into a fist and sinking it into his left bicep. She shook her head, lifting her eyes to the ceiling in annoyance, a smile touching the corners of her lips. "_Jesus_, I thought—"

"You thought, what?"

"I thought Noemi had taken a leave of her _senses_," gasped Jenny, falling back lazily and laughing breathlessly.

He smirked, proud of himself, and used the distraction of her laughing among the sheets to quickly remove his ring and toss it over on her bedside table. Wasting no more time, he ripped off his shirt and grabbed for her, pulling her towards him by her shoulders, sheets, throw pillow, and all.

She kicked her legs at him, and a muffled protest escaped her as he pressed his lips to hers for a long, intimate good-morning kiss.

"Not that I'm opposed," she murmured, breaking away, a little caught up in the way his hand was moving down her back and bunching up the material of her loose cotton t-shirt in his fingers, "but maybe you want to shut the door?"

She cocked her eyebrow.

"My poor housekeeper is already scandalized enough," she said, pushing him away and shaking her finger. "No need to further offend her good Catholic sensibilities."

He got up obligingly, scowling at her, and shut the door loudly; turning the lock just as dramatically, and Jenny rolled her eyes.

"The way you talk, Jen," he growled.

"What about it?"

"Hurts my head."

"Hmm," she said, eyeing his chest appreciatively as he sat down on the bed next to her. She drew her knees up to her chest and leaned forward, knotted red hair tumbling over her shoulders. "Damn good thing we don't do much talkin'," she said huskily.

She leaned forward and touched his neck with both of her hands and kissed him, and his hands tangled in her hair and pulled her forward in a tangled, uncomfortable, but close embrace. She could feel his skin through her thin t-shirt; she wanted to feel it against her skin.

Ah, to be woken up like this.

It was just a damn shame he had to drive from his wife's house to do it.

She caught her breath, sharply reminded for a moment, and broke the kiss momentarily.

"Actions speak louder," he said wryly, hands going for her t-shirt again. She let him inch it up, exposing her naked skin, and she looked at the line of his jaw and the swoop of his collarbone and then at his eyes, and she looked at him intently. If that was true, then what did _his_ actions say?

"What are you doing here, Jethro?" she asked curiously, her brows knitting together.

He never came over in the mornings; only at night, after work. They'd hooked up on a lunch break once; another time in his car in the parking garage. But he'd never come over in the morning.

He didn't really seem to know how to answer that question. He touched her knee and then moved her leg, so her thighs were spread around his middle, and he leaned forward, his body pressing against hers. She took a deep breath, intoxicated, and smiled—because he wanted to be here, that's why.

Because he wanted _her_.

She smirked, and yanked him back on top of her, pursing her lips.

Actions, indeed.

* * *

Jenny frowned as she squinted into her tin of coffee grinds—or rather, the empty tin where coffee grinds were _usually_ found. She shrugged and shoved it back in its little cubbyhole above the coffee maker.

"I'm out of coffee," she said, turning to the stove to inspect what Noemi had cooking. "You'll have to pick some up before work."

He made a skeptical scoffing noise.

"You're _out_ of coffee?" he retorted, as if it were the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

"My coffee intake has upped itself since _you_ barged into my life," she snapped back playfully, "and my _house_." She plucked a piece of bacon out of a frying pan and munched on it. "Noemi's used to stocking for one."

"You didn't notice you were out?" he sounded as if that were totally unbelievable.

Jenny shrugged, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Noemi notices," she said, well aware that she sounded spoiled and bratty, and doing it just to bug him.

"Notice for her," Gibbs insisted. "Re-stock."

"Today isn't grocery day. Thursday is."

He stared at her.

"What? Noemi has a system. I'm not going to screw with her system," Jenny responded seriously.

He snorted.

"She's your housekeeper, Jen," he reminded the redhead.

"Wrong," she said, popping the last bit of bacon into her mouth and snapping at him matter-of-factly. "She was my father's housekeeper. She's _my_ nanny," she informed him, waltzing to the fridge. "Can I interest you in some orange juice?" she offered breezily.

He shook his head.

"That's why she does everything for you," he drawled, poking fun at her.

Jenny slammed her fridge shut, bored with its contents, and cocked an eyebrow at him. She didn't respond, other than to just give him that sort of unreadable look. She flicked her wrist at the breakfast brewing on the stove and perched on the edge of the kitchen table, looking at him with a hand on her hip.

"You want breakfast?" she asked.

"Coffee _is_ breakfast."

She clicked her tongue in mock sympathy for him and then stood up.

"I'm going to shower," she said. "Help yourself to the kitchen."

His arm snaked around her waist and he pulled her down onto his lap; he pressed his lips to her neck suggestively and smirked, breathing her in and letting his hands roam over her pajamas and get tangled in the robe she'd thrown on.

"Want company?" he asked.

She laughed, tilting her head back, and slapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Mmm," she murmured, turning her face to his and kissing his lips lingeringly. "The point is to get clean, Jethro," she said huskily. "Not dirty." She extricated herself and gave his thigh a little smack with her open palm. "Go, get your coffee," she said, laughing again. "I don't want you in my kitchen when I get back."

She started to leave the room, and then whipped back in, giving him a wry look and pointing with a warning.

"Don't go get in my bed, either," she threatened, arching a brow. He grinned roguishly at her and made a motion as if to tip his hat in understanding. She stalked off up the stairs, and a few minutes later, heard an engine starting in her front drive.

* * *

"Senora," Noemi knocked lightly and earnestly on the bathroom door, holding an object delicately in her hand.

Jenny opened the door a bit wider—it had been cracked—and peered out, half-undressed and getting ready to hop into the shower. Noemi held out her hand, and Jenny faced hers palm up, her brow furrowing as she waited to see what the housekeeper had found so urgent to give to her.

Noemi dropped Jethro's wedding ring into Jenny's palm.

"Oh," Jenny said mildly, her brows going up. She cocked her head and frowned. "Where'd you find this?" she asked.

"Just near the alarm clock, Senora," Noemi answered. "I dusting. I no want it to fall in the cracks," she explained.

"Thank you," Jenny responded, nonchalant. She turned and set it carefully on her sink, making sure she plugged the drain just in case. "I appreciate it, Noemi, I'll return it," she assured the other woman. She started to push the door to a close again, but Noemi raised her hand.

Jenny paused and raised her brow again, waiting.

Noemi frowned uncertainly, nervously, and pursed her lips, struggling to find words.

"Yes, Noemi?" Jenny prompted gently.

"It no good," Noemi said bravely, looking Jenny in the eye. "Senora, it no good, sleeping with your boss," she said carefully.

Jenny gave a small, vague laugh that was intended to inform Noemi she should back off.

"I can take care of myself, Noemi," she demurred.

"Senora," Noemi said sharply, drawing herself up. "It no good sleeping with married man."

Jenny's expression froze. Her eyes flashed dangerously. Immediately, she lashed out at her faithful nanny-turned-housekeeper—lashed out because Noemi was right, and because Jenny didn't like to be reminded that Gibbs had a wife.

"Noemi," she said curtly. "I believe I pay you to cook, clean, and garden—_not_ to concern yourself with my choice in men."

Noemi looked chastised and abashed, and flushed red, turning her eyes downward. Jenny felt a rush of guilt and shame the moment she saw the hurt and embarrassment on Noemi's face. The Colonel would have given her a harsh smack on the knuckles for snapping at Noemi in such a way; Jasper Shepard had always been adamant that Jenny treat those who were in her service better than she treated herself. He'd be appalled to learn she'd barked at Noemi.

Noemi turned to leave, murmuring a sincere apology, and Jenny opened the door, calling her back.

She frowned, standing there in her half-tied robe and panties, looking at the other woman. She swallowed her pride.

"I'm sorry I was rude," she said calmly. "Noemi, I know you're just looking out for me."

Noemi nodded, her eyes big and genuine. She smiled a little, sadly, the lines around her mouth stretching and reminding Jenny of how Noemi used to look when Jenny behaved badly as a child.

"It all right," she said quietly. "I just no want you get murdered, Senora," she added sincerely, turning and bustling quickly out of the room.

Startled, Jenny looked after her, one eyebrow raised, interested. She thought it an odd reason to warn her off an affair—but then again, Noemi was from a country that languished in an unfortunate state of poverty and drug lord rule. Perhaps where she was from, men had killed for less.

A smile crept across Jenny's lips, and she turned to attend to her shower—ignoring the wedding ring that lay on her sink, and reminding herself that she had to get her ass to work on time.

* * *

She ended up taking the stairs from her parking space two at a time, swearing in a constant, silent stream as she counted her way to the main floor. She left the staircase and darted into the hall towards the bullpen, nearly mowing down Burley as she came around the corner. He was just getting off the elevator, and looked a bit sheepish about it.

"You're late, too," he hissed automatically, greeting her with a sort of accusation.

"I got in the shower late," she retorted, taking quick strides to the squad room with him. She gave him a disdainful look up and down, noting his mussed hair and wrinkled clothing. She sniffed. "What's _your_ excuse?"

She strolled to her desk, giving him a short look over her shoulder. She was willing to bet, based solely on the way Burley smelled, that Miller was rushing into her lab as belatedly as they were entering the bullpen.

Burley shot her a look and dropped his things in front of his desk.

"Late," Gibbs snapped at both of them.

"Jesus, we're five minutes off," Jenny snapped back reflexively.

He looked up at her mildly, remaining silent, and then just returned to his work.

"Late," he repeated obnoxiously, and she rolled her eyes, storming to her desk. She dropped her bag next to her rolling office chair and let her purse slide off her shoulder—and she let the shadow of a smile skate across her mouth when she saw the hot cup of coffee that was sitting on her desk.

Since Maryland, once or twice a week, she came in to a cup of coffee sitting on her desk, courtesy of Gibbs. It was the closest to confirmation anyone was ever going to get that Jenny Shepard was sleeping with Leroy Jethro Gibbs, even though Burley had been heard muttering that the cup of coffee was equivalent to Gibbs engaging in PDA.

Jenny knew there were subtle whispers, and she had the inkling that they were the result of Burley's offhand, caustic remarks. However, she couldn't prove that there was any difference in the way people talked now than there had been before Maryland, because Gibbs' penchant for redheads was apparently notorious, and she'd dealt with it before.

"What are we on?" Jenny asked briskly, planting her hands on her desk and looking around at the team.

"McIntyre," Decker answered helpfully. "You and Burley are cross referencing phone numbers with the different women he's said to be in contact with."

Jenny rolled her eyes and glanced at Burley dismally. Figures they'd get the short end of the stick, what with coming in late. She sat down and then stood back up, her hand falling to her back pocket. She picked up her cup of coffee and sought Gibbs' eyes, waiting until he noticed and quirked an eyebrow.

She put her left hand over the top of her coffee and wryly tapped the base of her ring finger. He blinked, his jaw tensing slightly, and glanced at his hand. She saw that he realized he'd left the ring, and he nodded curtly, indicating silently that he'd deal with it later.

Jenny sat down, leaning back lazily, and opened her drawer to pick out the file she needed. She had just settled in to tedious silence, her eyes scanning over phone numbers, a thick yellow highlighter in her hand, when Gibbs' phone went off—hopefully indicating they'd soon have something much less insipid to do.

After a few moments of Gibbs just sort of grunting answers into the phone, he hung up, and stood.

"Grab your gear," he said predictably.

He took the truck keys off his desk and chucked them at Decker. He pointed at Jenny.

"Shepard, with me," he said.

Burley rolled his eyes and rose up to follow Decker, while Decker waited for instructions.

"Anacostia," Gibbs said, and Jenny wasn't paying attention as he gave the address—she was too busy thinking that somebody _had_ to do something about Anacostia. There was _always_ someone dead in Anacostia.

Decker and Burley were gone in the next minute, and Gibbs chugged the rest of his coffee, tossing it in the trash as he started off. Jenny looked uncertainly at hers, longing for the rest of it, but unable to finish the whole, hot thing like he had.

"Take it with you," Gibbs said gruffly, beckoning. "C'mon, Shepard," he ordered.

She made a face, grabbing her backpack and heading after him, coffee in hand. She hated it when he called her by her surname now, but it was almost second nature to him, though it seemed the entire team switched it up—they never failed to call male colleagues by their last names, but for some reason, with the women, they just called them by their Christian names half the time.

She tried to be offended by it, but her heart wasn't in the indignation. Being called 'Shepard' by a bunch of aggressive law enforcement men made her think of her father, and she just preferred it be 'Jenny'.

The elevator door slid closed and the redhead turned to Gibbs, slipping her free hand into her back pocket. She stepped closer and reached for his jacket, finding the little pocket just on the inside, his wedding ring clutched in her palm.

"Noemi found it," she murmured, dropping the gold band into the little pocket. She pressed her hand to his chest lightly and tilted her head, cocking her eyebrow to give him a stern look. "Don't be careless, Jethro."

"Too late for that," he scoffed bluntly, and for some reason, the comment bothered her.

She stepped back, looking at him intently for a moment. She didn't get the impression that what they were doing was careless or reckless in any sense. Lack of finesse in _hiding_ it was careless, but the _choice_ to sleep together—to _continue_ to sleep together, that is, in the face of obstacles like marriage—was not. It was…she didn't know what it was, because she stalwartly refused to dwell on it.

The elevator jolted to a stop, and she took a pensive sip of her coffee. He gallantly gestured for her to exit first and she smirked, doing so in full awareness that he just enjoyed walking behind her.

He gave her a sly smack on the ass, eliciting a sharp, surprised squeal, and she laughed, shooting a wicked look at him over her shoulder.

Well, now, playing grab ass in the wide-open NCIS garage—_that_ could be classified as careless.

* * *

"Gross," Jenny said bluntly, crinkling her nose in disgust and turning on her heel. She faced away from the mangled body as she popped her gloves on, and she regretted eating so much of Noemi's delicious bacon this morning. No matter how hardened an investigator a person was—and face it, Jenny wasn't that hardened—certain things that happened to bodies were just, for lack of a more mature word, gross.

Disembowelment was one of them.

This body, though disemboweled and unappealing, was distinctly—

"What did they do, go at him with a _spoon_?" Burley asked callously, chucking an evidence kit down and scowling at the grass.

"Ah, it does seem this man was rather," Ducky paused as he approached, tilting his head in morbid curiosity. He clicked his tongue, and picked up another train of thought. "Well, it seems his killer was quite the amateur." The doctor crouched down, shaking his head in dismay at the grisly sight, and reached for his medical bag.

"What do we know about this poor soldier?" he asked.

"His name is Dick Sutherland," Jenny answered, roaming the area around the body, treading lightly and keeping an eye out for evidence. She crouched down near a blunt butter knife by the fireplace. "He's a Petty Officer first class," she murmured, picking up the knife and examining it closely. Bloody finger prints. She frowned.

"Can I have an evidence bag?" Jenny requested, turning to look at Decker. Her ponytail bounced against her neck. Decker hopped about getting her one.

"That the murder weapon?" Gibbs asked.

"Well, I don't want to make any assumptions," Jenny said seriously, "because the only ass on this team is Stan, so that's his job…" she trailed off, shooting Burley a wicked look. He scowled at her good-naturedly and she looked back at Gibbs. "It's a good bet," she finished. "Got bloody fingerprints on it."

Gibbs approached and took the bag from her, holding it up to the light and eyeballing it. He looked down at the body and gave a sort of grimace.

"Can't be," he muttered. "A butter knife, do all this damage?"

"It's possible, Jethro," Ducky said mildly. "If the assailant was relying on brute strength, he could have used muscle. Perhaps in some odd part of his mind, he was too non-violent to use something as B-grade horror movie as a butcher's knife."

None of them could tell if Ducky was being funny, and Jenny just made a face and looked again at the grotesque body, its intestines spilling out from deep, irreparable (obviously fatal) stomach wounds.

"You know, I was gonna take this foxy lady I met out to Italian tonight," Decker mused loudly, tilting his head at the body. "Don't know how I feel about spaghetti now," he added distastefully.

Burley laughed, and Jenny clicked her tongue.

"I think you better settle for Chinese, Deck," the redhead offered, standing up from her crouched position and taking the butter knife evidence bag away from Gibbs so she could appropriately label it.

Burley was mid-sarcastic comment when Gibbs suddenly narrowed his eyes at Shepard's hands and then looked at the floor curtly.

"You get a photo?" he asked abruptly.

"What?" she asked, taken aback.

"Did you photograph where that knife was?" he asked icily, enunciating each word in a patronizing manner.

"I," she began, her heart sinking as she realized that she hadn't. "No," she admitted roughly, shaking her head. She looked around. She hadn't even remembered to grab a camera. He put a hand to his forehead, looking pretty damn annoyed with her.

"Dammit, Shepard," he growled sincerely, his eyes flashing. "That screws up the chain of evidence."

She blew air through her lips tensely, treading dangerous waters. He hadn't been genuinely pissed at her since they'd started sleeping together on the side, and she was unsure how this was going to play out.

"Gibbs, I bagged and tagged properly, I'll just record where the knife was."

"It doesn't _work_ like that."

"If it becomes a problem, I'll swear under oath," Jenny said tersely. She rolled her eyes a little. "It's not a huge mistake."

"It's a _stupid_ screw up," he fired back. "You've been here too long for crap like that."

Burley whistled under his breath. Shepard shot him a searing glare and snapped her head back to Gibbs, her ponytail swinging angrily.

"People make mistakes, Gibbs," she snapped at him poisonously.

"You don't get to make mistakes at crime scenes," he fired back harshly, snatching the evidence away from her. "If where the knife was factors in and we can't prove we found it here? Defense has an easy case."

"I think you forget that I almost graduated law school," she said coolly. "I know how the courts work."

"Then you don't have an excuse in hell for screwing the pooch, Shepard," he said coldly.

She took the evidence bag away from him and shoved his hand out of her face as she moved past. She bit her lip and went over the crime scene kit, tucking the evidence into a pocket. She was struck by the appalling urge to burst into tears, and so she hid her face for a moment, tightening the elastic in her hair with schooled features.

"Jenny?" Decker asked mildly.

"What?" she barked. She looked up, and he was looking back, concerned. "I'm fine," she said, waving him off abruptly. She caught Burley's smug eye over her other colleague's shoulder and drew her lips back, almost baring her teeth. Gibbs was out of earshot so, her feelings hurt, she targeted Stan:

"Satisfied I'm not getting special treatment?" she hissed, the bitterness evident in her tone.

His smile faded a little sheepishly; a tense silence fell over them momentarily, they focused back on the gory scene at hand, and Jenny let herself calm down in the silence, determined to remain collected and professional, and pushing this _frustration_ away to work it out at a more appropriate time.

* * *

She muffled a _frustrated_ moan against his neck, her teeth scratching gently and desperately against the agitated pulse of his blood. She gasped and dug her nails into his back, clutching his skin, and pulled away from him, shifting her hips away so that it was difficult for him to keep up his erratic movements.

Gibbs stumbled, or at least, that's the only world she could come up with for what happened when he thrust against her again and sort of…came up short.

A surprised look crossed his face and she laughed breathlessly.

"What?" he panted, stopping, the muscles in his abdomen almost visibly jumping tightly under his skin. His jaw tightened and he braced his palm on the sheets beside her head. He breathed in slowly, evenly, and lowered his lips to hers.

Jenny shifted her hips and he groaned, his arm shaking.

"Jen, I can't," he muttered bluntly.

"It's not working for me," she said.

"I can't hold out," he said gruffly, shaking his head. "Don't move."

She was careful not to, and after a few uncertain seconds, he let out a breath and nodded his head, shifting back and siting back on his knees a little. He made a motion with his hand. Jenny turned over, stretching out on her stomach, and hugged a pillow to her, holding it to her breasts, resting her cheek against the cool side.

His body covered hers like a blanket and he slid back inside her, his hand running over her spine and then slipping under her hips, splaying over her navel between her stomach and the bed. She opened her mouth and closed her eyes, nodding.

"Good?" he asked huskily.

"Yeah," she answered, and he didn't waste anytime driving into her hard. She tangled her fingers into her hair, digging her nails into her scalp, and moaned, finally getting what she needed. She felt his lips on her shoulder briefly; warm and almost bruising, and he grasped her hip firmly, pulling her into him.

He traced her spine with his tongue.

"Jethro," she cried. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. He immediately lost interest in kissing her and his palm replaced his lips—she curled her toes, trying to find some way to move that would snap her control—she wasn't too fond of him using her lower back as leverage; he was too strong, but that thought was short lived; she arched her back and at the slight angle, he grabbed her thighs and buried himself so deep she lost her breath.

"_Fuck_," she gasped, she buried her face in her arms and the pillow and shuddered, her heart slamming against her ribcage with the same intensity that her blood pounded in her ears. She let his name tumble from her lips huskily. He groaned, his lips against her throat, and she felt her name as his deep voice rumbled through her skin. He was still for a minute, breathing heavily, a catch in his breath, and then he relaxed, his mouth more gently touching the back of her neck, his body resting on hers but in a controlled way that wouldn't crush her.

Gibbs rolled over and collapsed next to her on his back. He rubbed his jaw, wincing at the tightness that had set in from his teeth being clenched. Christ, it took a lot of control to last that long with a woman like Jen. He'd doubted she was going to get there tonight; he'd almost given up on her. There was something about the way her hips fit against his and about how toned and lithe her body was that made it so _hot_.

She shifted next to him. He closed his eyes heavily and took a deep breath, still feeling a desire for her that he couldn't begin to live up to for half an hour. She mumbled something in a whiskey voice that washed over his body deliciously and she rolled onto her back, her side rubbing into his; she lifted her leg and he reached out to wrap his arm around her thigh and hug. He squeezed her knee gently and massaged her smooth skin.

"What?" he asked lazily, his hand running over her leg.

She laughed, and he felt her breath against his biceps.

"I asked if you had a _hard_ day at work, Boss," she repeated.

He laughed, his hand still moving slowly on her. He turned his head to her and glanced.

"Yeah, one of my agents won't quit runnin' her mouth," he drawled.

"Well," Jenny sighed, managing to sound mockingly outraged. "Well, _fuck_ her." She raised her eyebrows and smirked; he stroked her thigh, appreciative of the jest. He leaned over and pressed his lips to hers roughly, trailing the kiss down her jaw to her cheek.

"Just did," he growled, nipping her ear.

She laughed again, muffling the sound in her fingers, and squeezed his shoulder. After a moment, her hand slid off of him and she closed her eyes, letting her breathing even out, and blithely enjoying the motion of his hand on her leg. She was impressed that, after her unfortunate gaffe at the crime scene today and the annoying total lack of sense the disemboweled body crime seemed to involve, they'd even had it in them to get it on after work.

Then again, lately, Jenny couldn't think of a moment when she hadn't wanted to be rolling around in bed with Gibbs.

The appalling lack of reason or even _leads_ that had come out of today's mutilated body had been mind numbing, and Gibbs had ordered everyone to go home and show up with damn good ideas tomorrow.

It seemed that after the drama of Maryland—what with its lions, tigers, bears (and sex), the team was doomed to mundane paperwork and every less-than-interesting, slowly cooling case.

Though she outwardly complained with the rest of them, it was a small relief to have a low stress work environment for the moment; she was busy trying to navigate the minefield that had suddenly become her personal life.

Gibbs' hand slid off of her leg and rested between them, and she shifted from her back to her side, her head falling lazily to his shoulder. She closed her eyes sleepily. This whole affair was really fucking—no pun intended—with her sleep schedule. It put her daily routine out of whack. She liked to focus on _that_ being the problem with this, rather than the painstakingly more glaring issue here.

A beeper on the bedside table went off, and Jenny lifted her head, glaring at the noise balefully. Gibbs rolled over and grabbed it, pulling his leg up so his knee pointed at the ceiling as he squinted and read the number.

"Work?" Jenny asked, propping her head on her elbow and resting a palm on his chest.

He shook his head, grunting in the negative.

"Where's your phone?" he asked vaguely.

Jenny frowned and thought about it. Her cordless phone was always off its stand and laying somewhere random in her bedroom. She sat up and glanced around until she spotted it facedown next to his pants. She retrieved it, doing a lot of stretching in the process, and dropped it on his stomach.

"You're really going to call her from my home phone?" she asked dubiously, pulling her knees to her chest and looking down at him guardedly.

He chucked his beeper to the floor with his jeans and sat up, kicking the covers off. He didn't answer, but he began to dial the number as he swung his legs off the bed and sat with his back facing her. She stared at the muscles of his broad, naked shoulders, thinking briefly about how they looked when they were flexing, and then shook her head and narrowed her eyes.

"Hey," he said gruffly, starting up a phone conversation that she wasn't a part of and didn't want to hear.

He fell quiet for a moment.

"Still at work," he answered.

It was a bold-faced lie, and it had the unexpected, immediate effect of making her _furious_ with jealousy. Jealousy she didn't think she had a right to feel, but had no ability to fight off; she was helpless against it suddenly and she nearly lunged for him—in a comical, dramatic, yet very subtle way.

Jenny cuddled up to his back and hung over his shoulders, her hands roaming over his chest idly while he carried on a monosyllabic conversation in with his wife.

"Yeah, I'm about to leave," he said.

Jenny pressed her lips to his neck and nibbled gently, smirking when she felt his pulse jump. He twitched his head away from her, and she felt a curious mix of hurt, anger, and shame. She heard Diane raise her voice on the telephone and squashed the urge to hurl the electronic device across the room.

Jethro's entire body tensed up suddenly.

"I've got time, Diane," he snapped.

He flexed his wrist subconsciously. Jenny slid her legs around his waist and hugged him from behind, breathing in his scent. She sat that way possessively for a moment and then moved gracefully; she knelt next to him on the bed and tucked her loose hair behind her ears.

"It's at eight!" he growled, obviously caught up in an argument.

Jenny leaned forward, her breasts pressing into his arm, and then his thigh, and she ran her palm from his heart to his groin, dragging her nails lightly over his lower abdomen. He said something sharp to Diane. Gripped by that unbearable flash of jealousy again and possessed of something reckless and awful, she went down on him.

It startled him enough to draw a low curse from his lips. To his credit, though, his voice remained composed, though if she listened just hard enough, she could hear the husky undertone in his words.

"…tryin' to finish up these files," he said in a controlled voice. "Diane, I promise," he snapped. "Be ready to go at quarter 'til eight," he ordered. There seemed to be a bit more chattering going on from Diane's end of the line; Gibbs slid his hand into Jenny's hair and tugged, though she couldn't quite tell if it was a '_deeper, yes, that's it'_ tug or a '_stop this right now' _tug.

"Yeah," Gibbs said. Then, "What?" he asked hoarsely, cupping Jenny's jaw awkwardly. He held her and forced her to stop moving. "Yeah, Diane, fine," he said roughly. "Faster I'm off the phone, quicker I'm home," he snapped at her.

Jenny squeezed his thigh.

Gibbs grunted something in answer to Diane, and then he hung up, and dropped her phone to the floor in a magnificent fumble.

"Goddammit," he swore at her, lifting her head up and glaring at her with something halfway between respect and foreboding. She just pursed her lips wantonly and lifted an eyebrow. He took a deep breath and let go of her, though one hand still rested lightly in her hair. "I've got to go," he muttered.

"Late for dinner?" she asked dryly.

"Banquet," he grunted with distaste. "Hospital banquet, for Diane's practice," he said vaguely. Jenny's expression didn't change as she silently processed the information and bitterly conceded that she'd, of course, have to let him go.

"What time?" she asked, glancing at the clock.

"Starts at eight."

"Hm."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. It was six-thirty. Diane was throwing a fit because she didn't think he'd have time to shower and spruce up for this black-tie thing. He shifted and made to move, but Jenny gripped his thigh and tilted her head seductively.

"Ah," she said, biting her bottom lip enticingly. "Wouldn't you rather I finish?" she asked innocently.

He needed to go.

He looked into her spellbinding green eyes, and she licked her bottom lip. He twisted his fingers in her hair, and slipped his other hand into her tangled mane of red curls, guiding her head back down to his lap in surrender.

He answered her question with an appreciative groan.

* * *

Of all the times Jenny was relieved to be alone, this was not one of them. Still in bed, with the sheets pulled around her so she was halfway decent and not too cold, she flipped her beeper around in her hands, almost willing it to go off so she could go back to work.

_That_ was her arena. NCIS headquarters was where _she_ was the only woman in Gibbs' life.

A vague, familiar sort of panic gripped her and she closed her eyes tightly. She needed to be occupied. She disliked spending much time pensive or quiet and alone anymore; it led to her thinking too much, analyzing her actions, and very nearly stumbling into a mire of self-loathing that she couldn't disentangle from. It wasn't that she hated herself—Jenny Shepard was too practical, confident, and ambitious to have ever hated herself—it was that she almost despised her _choices_ lately, but along with that was the weak sort of justification that she just couldn't help it.

What was that Margaret had said, when Jenny had ragged on her for sleeping with Stan Burley? You can't help whom you're attracted to? It had to be something like that. Margaret. Margaret was the closest thing to a friend Jenny had at this point in her life.

And she needed to get out of her house right now.

She flipped over on her stomach and picked up the cordless phone from the floor, punching in the scientist's number. After a few curt rings, Margaret picked up.

"Miller," Jenny greeted coolly. "Let's grab a drink."

* * *

There was a subtle, infuriating smugness in Leroy's demeanor as he spruced up and readied himself for her banquet, and even though he was civil and said or did nothing offensive, he successfully pissed her off. She had known he was perfectly capable of getting ready to go in under an hour, but she had called him to bitch at him because what bothered her was the fact that he didn't seem to _care._

It was maddening, that he could openly give off such a cavalier vibe about things that were important to her, yet when he had paperwork to do, it was all business and 'Diane, I have a job to do'.

_Like he's the goddamn president of the United States_, she thought sarcastically, as she touched up her hairspray. She frowned, checked to make sure there was no lipstick on her teeth, and then gave herself a critical look over. Satisfied with her appearance, she turned her back to the mirror.

She flipped off the bathroom light, and mustered enough civility and self-control to walk into the living room where Leroy was waiting. He'd naturally finished getting ready fifteen minutes before her, and was quietly basking in the glory of having proved her wrong.

"You ready?" he drawled, the minute she walked in.

She had the peculiar urge to slap him.

"When you are," she answered, a bit sarcastically, and he stood up. She swore under her breath—because instantly she was undermined. She forgot how damn _good_ he looked in a suit.

"Want me to drive?" he offered.

"Are you kidding? We're _not_ going to this in your busted up truck," she scoffed, shaking her head. She stalked to the kitchen and grabbed her clutch and her BMW keys off the counter, swirling them around on her finger and tapping her foot.

"I can drive the beamer," he said curtly.

"No," she retorted peevishly. "You can't."

He wasn't really a "car" guy, but it still pissed him off when she was possessive of her car, and so she did it _just to piss him off_. Small victories were a big thing in their marriage, even if he had no clue she was trying to get them every chance she could.

She brushed past him and paused, making an annoyed sort of face.

He didn't respond to her goading, just narrowed his eyes and checked his pockets before following her out the door. As usual, he left the door unlocked—a habit that drove her insane, but that she had long since given up trying to break him of.

He balefully got into the passenger seat, picking up and moving her golf clubs as he did so.

"You play today?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Emma and I had a noon tee time," she answered coolly, revving the engine. "We were supposed to play with her girlfriend, but she got tied up at work."

"Ah," Gibbs said, mildly keeping up with her small talk. "What'd you shoot?"

"Seventy-two," she answered.

The ghost of a proud smile flashed across her lips as she turned to back out of the drive, and he gave a low whistle.

"Impressive," he complimented.

"Can't complain," she demurred. She cocked an eyebrow, glancing at him. "Scored a hole in one on the fourteenth," she said.

He grinned at her.

"How'd you manage that?" he asked.

She turned her eyes on the road and cocked an eyebrow.

"Pretended the golf ball was your head," she answered smoothly, and hit the gas surprisingly aggressively.

Gibbs raised his eyebrows at her. Her anger surprised him, but he laughed—because he knew as well as anyone that nothing felt as good as accomplishing something when you did it at the expense of someone you were pissed at.

* * *

"Feeling feminine tonight?"

Margaret Miller, having finally navigated the crowd at one of DC's new swanky lesbian lounges, settled herself on a plush purple stool next to Jenny and placed her keys and purse on the bar before her.

Jenny looked at her with lips pursed in question, and Miller nodded to the distinctly girly drink in front of the redhead.

"This?" Jenny lifted the candy pink cosmopolitan and downed it in a gulp. "Child's play," she scoffed, and pushed the empty martini glass away. "And it was weak to boot," she noted distastefully, licking her bottom lip.

Margaret laughed and tapped the counter. The bartender turned to her.

"Guinness," she ordered bluntly. "And a shot of Jim Beam."

"That's absurd," Jenny remarked, before abandoning her disappointing Cosmo and, on a whim, ordering a Long Island iced tea.

The bartender whirled away to comply, and Miller gave Jenny a slightly wide-eyed look.

"I'm absurd?" she asked in disbelief. "You know we have to work tomorrow?" she reminded Jenny, cocking a brow at the alcoholic content of an LIT. Jenny leaned back on her barstool and shrugged.

"Haven't you ever thought Gibbs would be oodles more fun if you were drunk?" Jenny retorted, deadpan.

"You plan on getting drunk, Jenny?" Margaret asked slyly.

"It's an inevitability more than a plan," the redhead answered.

* * *

Gibbs took his time trudging back towards the table where he and Diane were seated. He had been sent—well, he had eagerly offered—to fetch drinks, and though he was eager to nurse his second bourbon, he was not eager to sit back down with the sharply dressed snobby men and women she called her friends.

He held his tumbler of Jack in one hand and her glass of White Zinfandel in the other and kept his eyes on her back as he approached. The delicate chair she was seated in had cut outs and allowed him to admire the back of her dress.

He took the time to acknowledge that she looked fantastic. She wore a light blue dress that was modestly cut in the front and plunged down in a daring V-shape in the back. Her fiery hair was pinned back so that it fell in wavy bunches over the nape of her neck. A pair of sapphire stud earrings (courtesy of him, on their wedding day) set off the outfit, and they glinted in her ear every time she tossed her head with a laugh.

A smug sort of pride gripped him—

-and then he wondered if it was morally reprehensible to be gloating over a wife he was cheating on.

"Here," he said gently, handing her the glass and sitting down next to her.

She nodded her thanks and he took a drink of his whiskey, leaning over towards her and casually slipping his arm onto the back of her chair. He let his fingers wander over her bare shoulder while she chatted with a goon-ish looking neurosurgeon, tracing little circles and designs with the pad of his fingers. Consciously or unconsciously, he didn't know, she leaned into his touch, angling her body towards him.

So he leaned forward, and he said:

"You look stunning," and he pressed a swift kiss to her cheek and leaned back, as if nothing had happened.

It was like that miniscule action lifted the stress and tense awkwardness between them for the night; she smiled, the smile finally reaching her eyes, and she reached over and let her hand lay on his thigh. Relieved, he went back to drinking, and checked the time.

She did look gorgeous, and now that she was happy, he'd have less of a problem when he told her he was going back to_…work_ after this black tie torture.

* * *

A very strong LIT and a couple of shots of patron later, Jenny was laughing rather loudly as Miller sucked the juice out of a lime, the corners of her eyes squinting comically at the sharp sour taste. Margaret rolled her eyes at Jenny's laughter and then ate the entire lime slice, holding her hands up triumphantly.

"Oh, yuck," Jenny commented, crinkling her nose. She picked up an empty shot glass, looked at it curiously, and then tossed her hair back, starting to lift her finger for another. Miller grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

"Ah, ah," she warned, flashing the face of her watch. "It's after eleven. Work tomorrow," she reminded Jenny. "I promise you will thank me for stopping you."

Jenny cocked an eyebrow.

"Margaret," she said seriously. "I am really drunk."

"I know."

"I don't think I'm capable of taking the metro back home."

"You're not, Jenny, I'm driving you."

"How are you not drunk?!"

Margaret grinned and clicked her nail against an empty shot glass.

"You snagged all my shots, Red," she snapped playfully, jingling her keys. "C'mon, pay your tab. You'll hate yourself for this when you have to face Gibbs with a hangover tomorrow," Miller added with a smug grin.

Jenny folded cash and a generous tip into her receipt and slipped it into the clean and dry tumbler reserved for payment sitting before her. She hopped off the stool with admirable grace for her inebriated state and smirked, pushing her hair back and letting it fall in tangles over her shoulders.

"Tomorrow?" she scoffed. "He'll be over tonight. Mark my words, that bitch _wife_ of his can't keep him if she tries."

"I am going to pretend I didn't hear that," Miller said diplomatically, a cool calm present in her tone. She smiled and steered Jenny towards her car—Shepard was fun when she loosened up out of her tight-laced, rule-savvy work mode. Fun like Stan was fun all the time—wickedly, Margaret thought it would be a riot to get Stan Burley and Jenny Shepard drunk off their asses—_together_—one weekend.

"Mags," Jenny drawled seriously as she approached the scientist's sleek black Lexus and leaned against the passenger door. "You ever think Gibbs is such a dick because," she paused, furrowing her brows. "Because there's a nail stuck in his paw?"

"Gibbs doesn't have paws. He's a man."

Jenny looked confused; she shook her head and waved her hand.

"You know what I mean," she insisted. "He's a dick," she opened her car door and sat down instead, fumbling with the seatbelt. "There's a fable with a mouse and a lion and the mouse pulls a thorn out of the lion's paw and the lion isn't sore," she explained, her tongue tripping over her words a little. "Gibbs is a dick because something is hurting him."

Margaret Miller looked over at her wasted redhead friend, and smirked.

"Write that wholesome insight down and read it tomorrow morning."

* * *

"It's almost midnight."

Gibbs looked back at his wife neutrally as she glared at him. He stood by the driver's side door of his truck, still in his suit, holding his keys. Regardless of how warm she'd felt towards him after his compliment at the banquet, his confession that he was going back to the office had pushed her right back into an angry mood.

"It's a 'round the clock job, Diane," he answered. "And I left early."

She rolled her eyes.

"Yes, I forget how inconvenient it is for you to do something for me," she remarked coolly. She shifted her weight, rubbing her arms in the humid night air. She frowned, the corners of her lips wrinkling in an unpleasant way.

"What can you possibly do at midnight that can't wait until tomorrow morning?" she asked shortly.

He shrugged.

"It's easier to work after hours," he lied gruffly. "Less distractions."

She made a skeptical scoffing-snorting noise.

"I don't know why I give a damn," she admitted roughly. "If you're here, you'll just be in the basement avoiding me."

He didn't answer, and she lifted her hand in a mocking sort of salute.

"Thanks for escorting me," she said dully. She pushed her hair back and turned on her heel; her earrings glinted a little in the porch light. He opened the truck door, and just as he was about to climb in, Diane called his name.

"Leroy," she said mildly. He peered at her in the dark. "I hope you're not doing anything stupid," she remarked cryptically.

He watched her walk into the house, and then rubbed his forehead tensely and got in the truck—and he, stupidly, left.

* * *

He was a little surprised to get a sexy welcome in the middle of the night on a Wednesday, but when he rang her bell there she was, clad only in a loose cotton button up that was distinctly _not_ buttoned—and underneath it, she was only wearing bright yellow lace panties.

Which was a little indecent, considering it put her on her porch half-naked.

She leaned seductively against the doorframe and invited him in.

She touched his lapel, her fingers brushing against his neck, and she puckered her lips as she looked him up and down, blowing air out playfully between her lips.

"You clean up nice," she drawled, winking at him impishly. She slipped past him to shut the door, stumbled a little, and giggled as the lock clicked—and that's when he realized she was _soused._

"Jen?" he asked, somewhat amused.

She lifted her brows at him mockingly.

"You know you gotta be at work tomorrow," he reminded her.

She clicked her tongue and pretended to check her watch.

"So do you, Boss," she said silkily. "Looks like you're out past your curfew."

He felt the need to tread carefully, but she roped him in.

"Gonna book me for it, Shepard?" he asked huskily, leaning closer to her.

She smiled and arched her back, letting him press a lingering kiss to her lips, and then she gracefully escaped his attempt to pin her to the door. She sauntered down her hallway to her study and he took the hint to follow. She collapsed down on the leather couch he'd once slept on and drew her leg up, strategically arranging her button-down so he could no longer see her breasts. She ran her hand up and down her shin lightly, pushing her hair back.

The background music drifting somewhere on her desk was unmistakably Michael Jackson. He was still trying to figure out what this _thing_ Jenny had for Michael Jackson was.

She was looking at him as if she were some sort of predator about to attack. He glanced at the cup of coffee she had sitting on a mahogany table. Next to it was a frayed paperback book, titled _The Bridges of Madison County_.

"Good book?" he asked, shrugging off his jacket. When he threw it over the arm of the couch, her eyes flickered slightly, like she was offended by his familiarity with her home.

"Mmm, ask me when I'm sober," she answered, shifting her legs. She straightened one out, and leaned her thigh against the back of the couch, flashing him her yellow panties again. That unexpected, wild colour was really throwing him off—did she wear those at work, under her professional slacks and skirts? It was such a racy option…

He bit back a groan, and she drew her nail from her knee to her inner thigh, beckoning to him with her left pointer finger. He sat down on the couch and pulled her leg over his lap, his eyes falling to the yellow splash of colour.

"Got a fetish for bananas, Jen?" he asked.

She pursed her lips, bat her lashes at him, and wriggled her toes along his inseam teasingly.

"Only yours, Jethro."

* * *

It wasn't difficult to figure out what she'd been drinking; she tasted like tequila and salt. She was just as good a kisser drunk as she was sober, but she was much less aggressive; she had been on his lap for half an hour before her hand had lazily slipped between them to unbutton and unzip his slacks.

Jenny ran her hands up his abdomen and chest to his neck and tilted his head back, pulling away from the kiss slowly. She blinked a few times to focus and arched an eyebrow.

"Why did you come back?" she asked, her lips turning up at the corners.

He tangled his fingers in the ends of her hair. He shrugged.

"There a wrong answer to this?" he asked.

She tilted her head intently, and then shook it back and forth.

"No," she answered—and there wasn't. If he was at her place, it was because he _wanted_ to be. It was because he had chosen it out of desire. If she had been his wife asking such a question, there was a wrong answer, and the wrong answer was 'because I had to'.

Well nothing _required_ him to be at Jenny's house. The gold wedding band and the marriage was what technically required him not to be here, and he came anyway. So she tallied: Diane: 0, Jenny: 1, and then she tried to convince herself that she was only doing such a cruel thing as keeping score because she was drunk.

He pulled her mouth down to his again and kissed her, his tongue sliding past her teeth, silencing her. She pressed closer to him, her thighs squeezing his, and she locked her fingers together behind his neck, tugging at his short hair. It occurred to her that they never really kissed like this; it was always urgent, fast, and a little bit wild. There was calm after the storm, but never a languid lead-in.

His hands moved to her shoulders and he pulled the button up shirt down her arms, exposing her back. Chilled, she snuggled against him, her hips settling more heavily against his groin, and he groaned, looking down distractedly and breaking the kiss. She moved to his neck, scraping her teeth teasingly at the sensitive skin there.

"Jethro," she murmured, as her lips moved closer to his ear. "Do you like it when she calls you _Leroy_?" she asked in a soft voice, biting on his earlobe, her nose pressing lightly into his jaw. He muscles tensed against her and he paused, turning his head away from her a little.

"Don't, Jenny," he warned coolly. He didn't care if she was drunk, he didn't want to hear her talk about his wife in a situation like this. Or ever, come to think of it. He did a damn good job of pushing _her_ to some far, blocked part of his mind. He didn't need Jenny bringing that up.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize," he quipped.

"Right," she answered, and rolled her eyes. She began unbuttoning his dress shirt, her fingertips slipping eagerly past the material to feel his chest. "I can't get anything right with you," she murmured.

His hands were on her thighs suddenly, brushing against her lace panties a little insistently, and she sighed, pressing her palms to his chest and leaning back so he could touch her. She played with the waistband of his pants and he pulled at the edge of her panties.

"Take them off," he insisted gruffly.

She considered his request for a moment, unwilling to put any space between them, trying to figure out how to accomplish the removal of her panties without too much rearranging. It was too logistical a question for her muddled mind, though; she rose up on her knees, her hair falling over her shoulders and getting in his face. He grinned and slid the panties down her legs, coming up short when he tried to get them around her knees and felt resistance.

"If you rip them I'll kill you," she threatened.

Gibbs gripped her knee and attempted to stretch her leg out and maneuver the lace off of her; she winced and twisted away from him.

"I'm not a gymnast!" she cried in protest. She tumbled off of his lap and laughed, losing her breath a little as her back hit the armrest of the sofa. He smirked and was able to whip the panties off her. He turned and crawled over her, sliding his arm around her waist and pressing her knee into the leather couch with his body.

"Mmm," she whimpered, biting her lower lip and wrapping her other leg around his waist. She used her heel to push his pants and briefs down; he pulled her hips up to him firmly and thrust inside her.

Jenny tilted her head back and gasped, blood rushing to her head. She pursed her lips and hissed out a breath through her teeth. He groaned, his forehead pressed into her collarbone, and she brushed her fingers across her lips, wincing.

"That angle was—"

"Bad?" he interrupted her hoarse confession apologetically and loosened his grip on her waist. Gibbs lifted his head up and kissed her jaw gently. She nodded and breathed out, shifting her leg and arching her back a little.

"Better?" he asked.

He shifted his hips and she nodded, biting down on her pointer finger.

"Ooh, better," she agreed huskily.

He reached up and took her hand from her mouth. He interlaced his fingers into hers and held on tightly; his lips brushed her neck and he started to move. She felt his forehead crinkle against her skin and smirked. She held his hand tightly, her breath catching in her throat every time he thrust into her. She relaxed; she was kidding herself if she let herself think she was getting an orgasm out of this—she was too drunk for that—but he was so close, for once, and he was holding her hand so tightly, that it felt _good_ anyway.

* * *

He was reluctant to wake her from the alcohol-induced sleep she was so deeply entrenched in, but something prevented him from just leaving her alone in her bed. She was usually awake when he left; if not, he woke her. Tonight had possessed a different atmosphere, an odd feel, which left him wanting to sleep next to her all night.

But that, he couldn't do, so he woke her.

She opened her eyes the moment he said her name; evidently she was easy to startle awake when she'd been drinking. Immediately, confusion clouded her green eyes and she looked around her, pushing the covers away.

It registered in Jenny's mind that, since she had fallen asleep on her couch downstairs, the only explanation for her having ended up in bed was that Jethro had carried her. And that realization struck her with a weird kind of vulnerability that she did not like, so she gave him a baleful look.

He turned her lamp on, and she groaned, blinking and shielding her eyes.

"I'm leavin'," he said.

"You had to turn the light on to tell me that?" she whined, falling to the pillows and burying her face. She whimpered and peeked at him from strands of hair and sheets, her green eyes glinting in the eerie glow of the lamp.

"Couldn't find my keys," he placated.

"They're down in the hall," she answered, gesturing vaguely behind her towards the door. She sounded congested and tired; her voice was thick. She moaned a short of pitiful moan and rubbed her forehead, curling up. "What time is it?"

"Three," he answered.

This time, her moan was more whiny and childish, probably provoked by the thought that she had to get up for work in about three hours. He smirked, and for the first—and probably last time—he caved in to giving her special treatment just because he wanted to make her happy.

"Jen, don't come in tomorrow," he said gruffly. "I'll page you if we have a crime scene," he added, making it less obvious that he was letting her get away with getting drunk on a work night and having no consequences.

"'Kay," she muttered without arguing, her voice muffled in the pillows. Her words were still a little slurred. "Turn my heat on when you leave," she grumbled, wrapping up in the covers clumsily. "It's cold without you," she said absently.

He laughed.

"Yeah, Jen," he agreed. On instinct, he leaned over and pressed a light goodbye kiss to her shoulder, and ran his hand possessively from her shoulder to her hip.

"Rule number ten," she chastised sleepily.

He pulled away from her, brow furrowed slightly, and got up to leave. He flicked her lamp off and shut her door—because she hated sleeping with it open—and it was when he was turning her heat on for her that it hit him what she was talking about.

_His_ rule number ten—never get _personally_ involved in a case.

Immediately after, it struck him that he was much more personally involved in this _just _sex than he had originally thought himself to be.

* * *

At nine o'clock the next morning, Jenny Shepard was brushing her teeth a second time to wash the sour taste of vomit out of her mouth. It had been a long, long time since she'd drank to the point of making herself sick, and she was less than proud of herself—to put it lightly. Her head was pounding, and her beeper going off shrilly right as she was spitting fresh mint toothpaste did nothing to assuage the aching.

"Shit," she swore, as she wiped her mouth and then fumbled her beeper off the sink and onto the floor. The battery cover busted off and she rolled her eyes, turning it over in her hands to look at the number.

She squinted to read it better and then turned on her shower and stormed into her bedroom to find her cordless telephone. She tossed her beeper onto the unmade bed, and while her water heated up, she called the Navy Yard.

"Decker," the phone was answered almost instantly.

"Hey, it's Shepard," she said, clearing her throat. "You paged?"

"Yeah, your highness, we've got a case," he answered good-naturedly. "Gibbs said you're sick or somethin'."

"Somethin'," she repeated vaguely. "Where?" she asked.

"West Virginia."

"What?!" she groaned. She rolled her eyes and held the phone between her ear and her shoulder, shrugging off her shirt and walking into the bathroom.

"Something's up," Decker said. "Gibbs wanted Stan and I to go check out this house, and its connected to some case, and someone is dead—"

"What are you talking about?!" Jenny demanded.

"Just come in," he said. "It's complicated. Meet us at—wait," Decker paused, Jenny heard murmuring, a shout, and then Decker swore. "Never mind, Jenny, Burley's gonna pick you up."

"I'm being punished," she said dully.

Decker just laughed.

"He'll be over in twenty minutes."

She confirmed that she'd be ready and barely said her goodbyes before she'd hung up the phone and sprinted into her bathroom to take what was going to be the quickest shower of her professional career.

* * *

To say she was perturbed by Burley's immediately bursting into laughter when she got in the car was to make an understatement.

"You're not sick, you're hung-over," he pointed out smugly, gloating.

Jenny scowled at him. It wasn't that obvious she was hung-over; the shower had done wonders for sprucing her up. Her cheeks were still paler than usual and her eyes were a little dark and bloodshot, but she had much less of a headache and the coffee in her travel cup was really perking her up.

She put her mug in the cup holder of Burley's surprisingly clean car and pulled her seatbelt on.

"Shut up," she grumbled mildly.

He whistled, and backed out of her drive.

"So," he began seriously. "What'd you do for Gibbs to convince him you could sleep in?" he asked suggestively, and when Jenny realized what he was insinuating, she turned towards him sharply, completely stunned by the audacity of his comment.

He mistook her staring at him for amusement, because he didn't look over at her right away.

"You dress up or somethin'?"

"Are you _completely_ oblivious to how inappropriate that was?" she asked through clenched teeth, her eyes flashing. "Do you have any _idea_ how _offensive_ that is?" she demanding, raising her voice.

His cocky look faded and his face took on a defensive expression.

"Cool it, Shepard, I'm kidding around," he said.

"You are not, Burley," she snapped at him. "You and I both know you're _not_."

"Shep—"

"No, Stan, that's the problem. You have never been kidding around when you make your ignorant little sexist comments."

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, and rolled his eyes, and looked out the front window—and that sort of attitude infuriated her, because she knew he was trying to blow her off. He was thinking _crazy_ and _feminazi _and he was probably twenty seconds away from asking her if it was her time of the month and she was going to _lose it_.

"You're a son of a bitch, you know that?"

"Yeah, well, if you want to play with the boys, learn to take a little flak," he shot back nastily.

"'Take a little flak'?" she repeated, her eyes widening. "_'Take a little flak'_?" Her hands were shaking. "Is that what you think you're doing, Stan, giving me _flak_?" He opened his mouth but she cut him off sharply, banging her hand on the dash in front of her.

"Hey," he snapped, sensitive about her maltreatment of his car.

"Hey," she shouted back at him, catching his attention beautifully. Her volume startled him and he shut his mouth stiffly. "Treating me like one of the guys is teasing me about my shot and kicking my ass in the gym—it's _not_ demeaning my sexuality and it is _definitely_ not insinuating that I'm a whore every other sentence!"

"No one's demeaning you, Shepard!"

"Suggesting I'm fucking Gibbs to make my job easier? Making comments about my clothing, my body, how I have accomplished things, making yourself feel powerful by trying to trivialize me? What the hell do you think that is?"

And from all of that, all Stan came back with was:

"But you _are_ fucking Gibbs!"

Her breath caught angrily in her throat for a moment and she shook her head, pushing her hair back. Her hand was still _shaking_, she was so mad.

"I didn't get my job because I slept with him! I don't use it to—You can't even _prove_ I'm...You don't _know_ if I'm_-goddamnit,_ Stan! I'm not sleeping with him to get ahead—"

"Then why not save yourself the gossip and get off his dick?" Burley interrupted viciously. "Why sleep with him?" he goaded. "Or are you just one of those women who gets off on taking what isn't yours? If you're gonna act like a whore, Shepard—!"

The violence and vitriol coming from him surprised her, even if it was Stan Burley and they'd never gotten along—she was still startled that he could be so utterly uncaring and so completely and wholly horrible. He was driving, so she couldn't let him have it without endangering her life.

"I fuck Gibbs because I _want_ to fuck Gibbs," she snarled at him, glaring at him viciously, her eyes so hard and stony that she was almost certain she'd never blink again. The language made her uncomfortable—admitting this situation out loud at all made her writhe in discomfort, and that she was alone with Burley…that made it all the worse.

She _knew_ Burley and Decker were probably aware of what was going on-how could they not be? But that he didn't have the decency to _pretend-and_ really, he _couldn't_ prove-!

"Then you've got the reasoning of a petulant kindergartner, Shepard, and don't expect anyone to respect you for it," his eyes snapped to the road, and under his breath, she heard him mumble it: _"Homewrecker."_

She bit her tongue and sat on her fist—it was all she could do to restrain herself for the moment; she forced herself to hold out until he parked the car at the crime scene and killed the engine—

—and then she was out of the car too fast for him to keep up with her, and just as he was shutting the door and stepping away from the federal sedan she grabbed his shoulder, jerked him around to face her, and punched him square in the mouth.

His bones thunked against her knuckles and it stung like hell, but the blood that gushed from his lip and onto her fingers satisfied her, and she shook her hand out with subtle pride as he burst into cursing and stumbled away from her.

"God_dammit, _you crazy _bitch,_" he swore.

Jenny lifted her fist to her lips and sucked on her knuckle to soothe it; Burley bent over, holding one wrist to his face, and braced himself on his knee with the other, spitting blood onto the ground.

"Whoa, folks," a male voice shouted, and Jenny turned in time to see a stocky, balding man in a windbreaker that looked as if it were NCIS issue. "This is a crime scene," he started sternly. "You're gonna have to take your lovers' spat elsewhere."

Jenny turned on him aggressively, whipping her badge out of her pocket and chucking it at the man's chest.

"I'm NCIS," she barked. "This is my crime scene." She jerked her thumb at Burley's pitiful form behind her, giving the older man a challenging glare. "_He_ likes to call himself a Fed, too," she bit out roughly.

The guy just stared at her for a minute, and then glanced down at her ID, narrowed his eyes, and handed it back to her.

"You've got to be one of Gibbs'," he said seriously, his brow crinkling. "As to this being your crime scene, that's debatable," he added, and then narrowed his eyes as he looked at her bloody knuckle and Burley's bloody lip, silently reprimanding them for the spectacle.

He extended his hand.

"Tobias Fornell, FBI," he said.

Jenny straightened her shoulders and took his hand, shaking it firmly and with all of her strength—using the bloodied one, and not giving a damn.

"Jennifer Shepard," she retorted. "You got a problem working with women?" she snapped at him.

He held up his hands.

"No ma'am," he said, and grinned at her.

"Don't call me ma'am," she growled, her shoulder slamming roughly into his as she stormed past him. "Where the _hell_ is Jethro?"

* * *

Gibbs was already pissed that Fornell and his FBI _goons_ were fighting for this crime scene; it didn't help his mood to discover that Fornell had run into Jenny apparently beating the shit out of Burley out on the street.

He rubbed his jaw tensely as he watched Burley mop up his cut lip. There was already an ugly bruise blooming over his nostril and jaw, a bruise that—in other circumstances—Gibbs might be proud of Jenny for.

The woman in question was not looking at him; she was pointedly looking at the yellow crime scene tape surrounding the front door of the Maryland house.

Gibbs had left Decker to hold their ground inside, and was currently glaring stoically at each of his agents. Burley wadded up his gauze and spit out a last mouthful of coppery tasting blood before he straightened up and gave Gibbs a sour look.

"What happened?" Gibbs demanded curtly.

Burley nodded at Shepard.

"Ask her," he said meanly.

Gibbs looked at Shepard, but she did not look back at him even then. She squinted her eyes and shifted her feet, but other than that, he had no luck. Her nose crinkled slightly and her lips turned down at the corners.

"Doesn't look like she's talkin'," Gibbs observed.

"_She_ doesn't have to, does she?" fired off Burley. "All she's gotta do is bat her eyelashes, and you're on her side."

Gibbs rubbed his jaw again, irritated, and this time his attention was totally on Burley.

"I'd say it sounds like you're jealous, Stan," Jenny spoke up coolly.

Gibbs put his hand up.

"Shut up," he said to her. "Both of you," he added, turning a sharp look on Stan. "Burley, go back up Deck," he ordered. Burley scuffed his boot angrily on the concrete and then stormed off, disappearing into the house after roughly shoving aside some yellow tape.

Jenny was still refusing to look at him.

He eyed her intently for a minute, and then moved closer.

"Shepard," he started in a low voice. "What. Happened?"

She moved her head slightly and then shrugged her shoulders.

"He was just being himself, Gibbs," she answered finally, her words clipped and leaden.

"Burley's rough around the edges," Gibbs agreed mildly. "That's not why you hit him," he pointed out knowingly. "What did he say?"

Stubbornly, she shook her head.

"Jen," he warned.

"What?" she snapped, turning her head and looking him in the eye. "_What_, Jethro?" She swallowed and gave him a cold look. "I am in an _impossible_ position," she said tightly. "It isn't Burley's fault, and it isn't your fault, it's mine, but you two are the _only_ people I want to blame right now."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Gibbs asked, exasperated.

"It is your job to prevent me from being harassed, but if I whine to you about Burley being a misogynistic prick and you take up for me, he's going to bitch that you're playing favorites because we're screwing," she articulated bitterly. "You can't do your job because you're doing me."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes and set his jaw.

"Bull," he retorted gruffly. "If Burley needs his ass kicked, I'll kick his ass."

"Took care of that," she groused.

"What did he _say_?"

Jenny turned her head away and then turned her back to Gibbs, her body angled towards the car she stood in front of. She put a hand on the hood, then reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear. Her hand lingered on her face, touched her cheek, and she tilted her head up to the sky.

"He called me a homewrecker," she answered finally, and he detected just the tiniest of shakes in her voice at the end. She touched her face again, and he realized with a sinking feeling that she was urgently preventing herself from crying.

Gibbs swore under his breath.

She took a deep breath and swiped at her eyes again; he reached out with both hands as if to take her by the shoulders and she threw her arms up, showing him her palms, a fearful uncertain expression crossing her eyes.

"Don't," she hissed. His wedding band glinted at her in the sun and she blinked away her tears with resolve.

"Jen, _stop_," he growled. His hand landed on her hip, away from the view of the house, and he leaned a little closer, his eyes hard and frustrated. She reached down and squeezed his hand, her fingers brushing against his intimately.

"We _cannot_ do this here."

He released her hip, and in the nick of time, because the FBI agent was approaching, and Decker was with him, look perturbed and displeased all at once. Jenny moved away from Gibbs quickly; she composed herself and put a stony expression on her face, and she ignored Decker's look of concern.

"You want to wait on your ME?" Fornell asked, glancing at Jenny curiously as he walked up.

"Duck's on his way," Gibbs retorted brusquely. He gestured to the house vaguely and caught Jenny's eye. "Shepard, go help secure the scene," he ordered gruffly. "Just don't talk to Burley," he added as an afterthought, rolling his eyes for Decker and Fornell's benefit.

She turned on her heel and was off without argument; he sensed she was relieved to get away from him, and he felt that sense of relief, too. It was disarming to see Jenny upset because her feelings had been hurt; he didn't like it, and he knew the urge he had to cold-cock Burley himself was inappropriate and had to be ignored. Jenny wasn't the woman whose honor he was supposed to defend.

Fornell turned and watched her go, shaking his head.

* * *

"You gonna put 'em both in time out back at the Navy Yard?" Fornell asked, watching Gibbs' probie and Burley tiptoe around each other tensely as they assisted both the FBI and NCIS' medical examiners.

Gibbs shot Tobias a glare and grit his teeth, annoyed at the both of them for putting on such a display in front of the damn _FBI_.

"So that's what it's like, having a woman on the team," Fornell went on smugly. "Tears and hitting. Kind of like havin' kids."

"How would you know, Fornell?" Gibbs asked.

Fornell shrugged.

"Got a couple siblings," he answered.

Jenny approached and handed Gibbs a zip-locked bag that contained carpet fibers.

"This is what we're after," she said.

"That what led you here?" Fornell asked, reaching for the bag. Jenny yanked it out of his reach and made a point of handing it directly to Gibbs. She nodded and folded her arms in front of her once Gibbs had taken it. "What, carpet fibers?"

"We found a badly mutilated body 'bout a week ago," Jenny informed Fornell. "Lab analysis of things found on his body turned up a carpet fiber that our forensic lab connected to a ritzy carpeting company that caters to this neighborhood," she explained. "We've been interviewing people and narrowing down houses."

"And you turned up here this morning and found our crime scene," Fornell supplied.

"I'll take your word for that," Jenny answered dryly, turning back to the parking lot.

Fornell turned back to Gibbs.

"Coincidence?" he asked.

"No such thing as coincidences," Jenny remarked mildly.

Fornell arched an eyebrow at Gibbs.

"She's been with you, what, four months? You've already brainwashed her," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. He smirked. "Why do they keep letting you train the new ones?"

"Charisma," Gibbs answered, deadpan, in the most uncharismatic voice he could muster.

Fornell snorted.

"Same character trait that got you a stone cold fox for a wife," he drawled. "How is Diane?"

"Pain in the ass," Gibbs answered in his usual way, falling easily into male banter with Fornell.

"She ever mention me?" Fornell asked slyly. "We had some pretty profound moments during the hunt for Boone, me 'n her," he quipped.

"Yeah, when she threw that mason jar at your head. Real romantic," Gibbs retorted.

"She was aimin' at you, pal," Fornell chuckled, shaking his head. "She still hate you?"

Jenny cleared her throat, whether it was purposefully or just coincidental. Fornell looked at her and then jerked his head at her back.

"Diane met her?" he asked in a low voice.

Jenny straightened up, snapping off her latex gloves.

"There's no conceivable connection between our poverty-ridden dead marine and this trust fund bleached blonde brat," she said coolly, her eyes hitting Fornell's' threateningly.

He gave her a surprised look, taken aback by her—for lack of a better word—balls. He was unsure what he'd said to offend her. She was a fantastic-looking woman, and he glanced at Gibbs, a scandalous thought crossing his mind—no, Gibbs was too uptight and traditional—

"That's what we're here to figure out, Agent Shepard," Fornell said cordially.

She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, flicking her eyes behind her. She looked thoughtful, and then put a hand on her hip as if suddenly taken by a farfetched idea. Throwing caution to the winds, she asked:

"You boys ever seen _Strangers on a Train?"_

* * *

Margaret Miller was livid: livid because she hated getting involved in the petty squabbling of the agents upstairs, and livid because she couldn't stop herself this time. She didn't feel responsible for Stan—she wasn't silly enough of a woman to think she was personally guilty for everything the man she was sleeping with did—but she did consider Jenny her friend. When she'd heard what had happened—and from Decker's mouth, not Shepard's, she knew nothing had been embellished, and she knew Stan needed his ass kicked.

"It isn't cute, Burley," Miller snapped at him, half-focused on the samples she was transferring from microscope to tray.

"Oh, we're back to last names now?" he retorted, though his heart didn't seem to be in the fight. He was sitting on her stool with an ice pack pressed against his lip and the left side of his nose, sort of pouting at her.

She'd called Gibbs and specifically asked for him to come get the evidence she had.

"Stan," Miller sighed unhappily, turning to him. "What's wrong with you?"

"Shepard _gets_ on my _nerves_," he snapped. "Isn't that enough?"

"No," Miller snapped back. "No, because Gibbs gets on your nerves, too, but you're scared of him, so you don't attack him. And you see yourself as having power over Jenny, so you attack her."

"She attacked me!"

"You attacked her verbally!"

Miller turned to him and propped a hand on her hip, narrowing her eyes.

"I know you're a bit of a natural dick, Stan, but you're _not_ a misogynist. You're a little old fashioned and chauvinistic maybe, but so's Gibbs, and so's Decker, though he's more so in a chivalrous gentleman sort of way—"

"Hey, I can be a gentleman," Stan drawled.

"I'm aware of that," Margaret said. "So why isn't Jenny aware of that? Why do you put off such a negative attitude towards her? Is it because it makes you nervous that she can hold her own and doesn't need your protection?" Margaret paused. "Or is it because you're attracted to her?"

Burley stared at her, his eyes widening behind the ice pack.

"W-_What_?!" he spluttered, caught off guard. "At_tracted _to her?" he repeated. "Why would I be mean to her if I was attracted to her?"

"What reason do you have to be mean to her at all?"

"She's unprofessional, Mags!"

"How?" demanded Miller calmly.

"She's-! You _know_ how! Sure must be the high life, you know, sleepin' with the boss!"

"You have no empirical proof that Shepard is sleeping with Gibbs."

"Who gives a damn about empirical _whatever_? They're sleeping together."

"And how exactly has that alleged fact presented itself in the bullpen?" Margaret probed. "Has Shepard been promoted? Been allowed to sit out dangerous situations? Been given a pass on slip ups or shoddy police work?"

Burley opened his mouth, and then clamped it shut. Other than the coffee Gibbs very occasionally brought her, Burley realized he couldn't pick out a moment when Shepard had received preferential treatment. He remembered Gibbs giving her hell for that evidence-photo slip up the other day—the same hell he gave all of them. Aggressive, blunt, no-nonsense Gibbs.

"He let her stay home because of a _hangover_," Burley tried, his passion fizzling somewhat.

"I came in late this morning as well," Miller said mildly. "I spoke to Director Morrow about a similar situation. Would you then assume Morrow and I are having an affair?"

"Of course not," Burley answered sheepishly. "But the Director isn't Gibbs. Gibbs doesn't brake for hangovers."

"Do you know she had a hangover, or did you assume so?"

Burley lowered the ice pack from his face and blinked at her.

"Who's side are you on, Maggie?" he asked after a moment.

"I am not taking sides," she responded, holding up her palms. "I'm personally involved with you, Stan, and because of that, I want to defend you. I know a different person than Shepard does and I can't for the life of me figure out why the hell you're acting like such an asshole," she paused, and shook her head curtly. "But as a female it infuriates me that you'd treat a colleague this way. What right do you have to bitch at her for who she sleeps with?"

Margaret moved her pointer finger back and forth between them.

"Gibbs told you to knock it off with me months ago!"

"He's a hypocrite!" hissed Burley, and Miller snapped triumphantly.

"_That's it_," she pinpointed. "That's it; you're jealous because Shepard impressed him more quickly than you did, and you're mad because Gibbs broke his own rules."

Burley grumbled under his breath, and placed the ice pack back on his face gently.

"What's so special about her, Mags?" he asked unhappily. "Her pus—"

"Don't you dare," Margaret cut him off. "She and Gibbs are cut from the same cloth. He respects you, Stan, he does. But he _understands_ her."

Burley bowed his head, and then rubbed his forehead.

"Just something about her rubs me wrong," he muttered.

"You're jealous. Get over it," Miller said gently, shrugging.

"She still didn't have to hit me," he groused.

"You called her a _whore_."

Burley made a face.

"Fine, I deserved to get hit," he said. "But she packs a punch, Mags!"

Miller smiled wryly.

"I think she might like to hear that compliment when you _apologize to her_."

* * *

She still had a headache menacing her at seven o'clock when everyone was packing up to go home. They had no leads on this case—which was now a joint FBI/NCIS investigation—and the only one who seemed to think her _Strangers on a Train_ theory plausible was Fornell's gangly, freckled college intern. Working with Burley had been unbearable all day, Gibbs was in a horrible mood because Fornell was so weirdly cheery all the time (in a bastard-ish way), and Decker seemed to be off his game; he'd told her to look past her education in English lit and _wake up to the idea that violence was random and inexplicable._

"…think I might pop over for dinner with you and that lovely wife."

"Go home, Tobias," Gibbs growled.

Jenny looked up through her lashes at them, compressing her lips. Those two had a _weird_ relationship. She stumbled around trying to define it and came up with a mix of frat brothers and sports rivals. With guns. It was interesting, but also borderline creepy.

Because sometimes it literally sounded like Fornell was _flirting_ with Gibbs.

Decker and Burley seemed to be at least somewhat accustomed to it, whereas Jenny was utterly baffled.

Fornell turned to her out of the blue.

"You know we've got a much sweeter setup at the Hoover building, Shepard," he said wryly. "Friendly work environment, too. What makes you want to work with the Federal government's redheaded stepchild?" he goaded.

Jenny lifted her eyebrow at him, and then lifted her pencil and tapped her hair pointedly.

"We're soul-less mates," she answered, deadpan.

Fornell grinned.

"I guess you'd have to be soulless to put up with this old bastard," he said, jutting his thumb back at Gibbs.

"Soulless isn't the word I would use," Jenny answered, standing up and gathering some of her things together.

"Naw?" Fornell asked curiously. "What would you use?"

She pursed her lips and tilted her head back and forth, pretending to think about it.

"_Redheaded_," she answered smartly, turning the conversation right around on him, shooting Tobias Fornell a wry look. The older man's eyes lit up with mirth and he laughed loudly. He extended his hand and she shook it firmly.

"I look forward to working with you more, Shepard," Fornell said good-naturedly.

"You will be," she responded confidently. "Hey, Agent Fornell," she called as he was leaving. He turned around and quirked an eyebrow at her. "You know, there's merit to my _theatrical_ idea," she said.

"Jesus, Shepard," Gibbs muttered, and she turned a glare on him. "Drop it," he ordered.

"No," she responded. "You haven't gotten anywhere with anything else."

"What do you suggest?" Fornell asked, though he sounded suspiciously like he was patronizing her.

"Have your team re-interview everyone close to our victim," she explained slowly, "and NCIS will re-interview everyone close to your victim after you do your interviews. Then we monitor their phone calls, and see what happens."

Fornell backtracked a few steps. He looked at Gibbs.

"Couldn't hurt," he said.

Gibbs looked at Jenny, unreadable for a moment. He rubbed his jaw uncertainly and then snapped his head over to Fornell.

"Do your interviews on your case," he said. "We'll go over everything again, look for leads. Then we put Jen's plan into action," Gibbs decided.

Fornell nodded.

"I can deal with that," he agreed. He gave a small wave and said his farewells again, that grin back on his face. In a weird way, he reminded Jenny of the rat Templeton from _Charlotte's Web_. He retreated to the elevator, and left Gibbs and Jenny alone in the bullpen; Decker had left early after finishing some reports, and Burley had been down in evidence cataloguing for over two hours now.

Jenny cleared her throat and kicked her bag and purse further back behind her desk, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Burley apologize to you?"

Jenny snorted and raised her eyebrow at him.

"Why would he, Gibbs?" she asked. "You teach your soldiers not to apologize."

"It's different," he growled.

"Because I'm a woman?" Jenny asked dully. She wrinkled her nose slightly, her brows quirking up mockingly. "Or because you're territorial," she lowered her voice, "and you're pissed he insulted _your_ woman?"

"You're not my _woman_, Jen," he hissed back, annoyed by the term.

"I'm _well_ aware of that, Jethro," she shot back. She cut her eyes to his left hand pointedly and then pushed her chair in. "Go home, Jethro," she said, repeating the words he'd so briskly said to Fornell.

"You workin' late?" he asked, as she started out of the bullpen.

She swallowed hard, and she nodded.

"I made a friend in the Cyber unit," she said. "He's going to teach me some things, get me ahead of the technical game," she added.

Gibbs looked skeptical.

"We have a Cyber unit?" he asked. He checked his pockets for all of his things and locked his desk; he followed her out of the bullpen and they went to the elevator in step.

Jenny rolled her eyes.

"It's going to be our most important unit come the millennium," she remarked.

He scoffed, holding the elevator door and gesturing for her to go in first.

"Nothin' beats good old fashioned police work," he drawled.

She shook her head at his stubborn need to hold on to the old ways, and stepped on the elevator, watching it slide closed in front of them. She shifted her feet and pressed the button for the basement—which was where the fledgling unit was going to be located.

Right near Margaret's lab.

Out of the corner of her eye, Jenny saw him rub his jaw tensely. After sleeping with him for a while now, she knew that particular gesture meant he was feeling stress of some sort; she wondered if it had to do with the all-around bad taste this day had left in the whole team's mouth.

He lunged forward and shut off the elevator.

She took a deep breath, though she didn't know what was worrying her. It wasn't as if they were back in the early days, dancing a line they couldn't cross. They were past the line and past out of bounds. There wasn't anything they could do to make their sins worse.

"Jen," he said gruffly.

She looked over at him, her eyes meeting his.

"You're not a home-wrecker," he said, and his words startled her. Had he been thinking about that all day, like she had? She hadn't expected him to be. She had hardly stopped thinking about Burley's accusations, but that was because she was the party who would inevitably be completely faulted and vilified if they were ever caught—

She tried to cut the thought off. They were capable of getting this…lust out of their systems without getting caught, right? And then they'd never speak of it again.

In the split second that her mind ran through all of these thoughts, she just lifted her shoulder slightly and nodded.

"I know," she said.

He gave her a steely look and then casually leaned back against the elevator wall, his hands in his pockets.

"Wrecked my own home," he muttered unexpectedly.

This time, she was so startled, she actually stared at him with her lips parted. She turned a little more, her back half facing the elevator doors, and she studied him. She felt a tug in her chest that made her stomach flip and sink all at once. She bit down on her lip until it hurt and then she cleared her throat.

"Then _go home_, Jethro," she said hoarsely, though it physically hurt her throat to force the words out, and encourage him to stay away from her bed tonight.

The elevator doors opened to the basement, and she turned to step off; he grabbed her arm and stepped up to her, towering over her and looking down. She couldn't read his expression; she couldn't even see past the iron blue curtain of his eyes, but when he kissed her quickly—even though it was fast and his mouth was gone in a blink—she could interpret his lips.

He didn't want to go home.

* * *

Alone with his boat, in the basement with a mason jar of bourbon, Gibbs listened to Diane walking around upstairs. He didn't know what she was doing; her movements were white noise. She'd only made small talk with him when he'd come home. She curtly told him there was dinner in the fridge. The phone had rang about thirty minutes ago; maybe she was still on it.

He ran his hand back and forth over his workbench while he stood next to it, disregarding the risk of splinters, his eyes narrowed as he looked at the shell of his (second) masterpiece. It was nearing completion, this part of it. But the closer he got to finishing, the more he wanted to burn it. It was as if he just couldn't finish it.

His first boat had been near finished when Kelly and Shannon had been killed.

That was something he never got to finish, either. A life cut short too early, which forced him into a new world he didn't know how to navigate. And now he was in a mess—to put it lightly. He didn't know what he was doing; he didn't know where he was going or what the endgame to this was.

He had never intended to sleep with Jenny, but he had slept with her because he didn't have the self-control required to say no to that moment when his instincts and his body were screaming _yes_ with ever nerve and fiber. He had assumed it would happen once and they'd be done, but now he couldn't stay away.

He liked Jen. He wanted her. Sometimes, he felt the nagging desire to just be with her. She was easy to be around; she didn't probe into his life, she didn't ramble on about what her hopes and dreams were and how they meshed. To be fair, that could be because she was at a disadvantage here as the other woman—she wasn't allowed to do any of that. He sensed it was more than that, though. He got the feeling that she didn't care if he talked because _she_ didn't want to talk.

He knew innately that he should not be involved with Jenny, but realistically, he was. He warily acknowledged that it hadn't crossed his mind to end that relationship. It hadn't crossed his mind to end his marriage, either. He was stuck between a rock in a hard place, and he still didn't feel _guilty_.

With Jenny, though, he felt less _empty_.

"Leroy."

"What?" he called back to his wife.

"I'm going out with Emma."

He grunted in response, and he didn't know if she heard him.

Footsteps and footsteps later, she left and the house was empty again, save for him, staring at the boat, and refusing to take responsibility.

* * *

"Senora, you home very late tonight," Noemi remarked sweetly.

She bustled out of the kitchen as Jenny was laying her keys, badge, and sig on the hall table and beamed at the redhead; Jenny returned the smile half-heartedly and glanced at her watch.

"Ten isn't too bad," she said. "You didn't have to wait around, Noemi," she added.

"I make sure nothing catch on fire," Noemi said breezily, waving her off. "I make dinner for you, see," she added.

"Thank you," Jenny answered sincerely.

"You alright, Senora?" Noemi asked.

Jenny bit the inside of her cheek and turned, looking at Noemi gently for a moment. She nodded slowly and gave her a small smile.

"I'm fine, Noemi," she assured her housekeeper. "No one has tried to murder me," she added wryly. Noemi blushed and smiled at Jenny. She hesitated and then returned to the kitchen and grabbed her things, readying to say her goodbyes. Jenny waved at her good-naturedly and then waited for Noemi to shut the door behind her before she let the frown settle over her features.

Spending three hours in Cyber crimes had done nothing for her headache, but it had done a hell of a lot in the _taking her mind off things_ department. In the past day—no, more than a day; she needed to figure the reason behind her getting drunk in the first place into this—she had felt more hollow and demeaned than she had since, well, possibly high school.

The fact that Stan Burley rather than actual moral_ decency_ had provoked such a feeling was appalling to her, and it had unexpectedly brought thoughts of her father to the front of her mind.

Proud, honorable Colonel Shepard, who always did unto others and kept his promises on pain of death.

What would he think of his only little girl now, when she was making her bed in the sheets of someone else's husband?

"I don't know why I care," she said aloud, bitterly, to the Ghost of Jasper. "You didn't give a damn what I thought while that horror show was going on," she muttered.

She shoved her things away and went into her kitchen, where she turned off the stove and put Noemi's generous dinner in the refrigerator. She hadn't had the heart to tell the woman she wasn't hungry, but she wasn't. She wanted only to shower and to crawl into bed.

So she retreated up her stairs and turned on the water, made sure it was heating up to scalding, and stripped off her clothes while she waited for the temperature to get just right. She stood looking at her reflection in the mirror as it slowly fogged up and made her face look soft and unfocused.

She had been so careful to refrain from even grazing the tip of the iceberg that was looming in her life. She was very conscious about ignoring the elephant in the room—the one with the title _Mrs_. in her name—and focusing solely on herself; on what was happening at work and in her own personal life.

Burley had goaded her, and she'd succumbed to immature tussling, to fighting in the streets, and she attributed that petty weakness to the fact that she was insecure and ashamed of her own actions.

And then Gibbs, Gibbs had rocked her perception of things with his raw, off-the-cuff comment. _Wrecked my own home_. She couldn't grasp the sentiment; didn't understand how to interpret it. Did he mean he was leaving his wife? The thought starkly terrified her; she suddenly realized she didn't want that.

Jenny shook her head and licked her lips. She was overthinking things; that's why she didn't let herself think about this. She slept with Gibbs because it felt good—he made her feel good.

They could end it later. They _could_.

It was like Margaret had said, when she was justifying her relationship with _Burley_ of all men, you can't help who you're attracted to—you can't help who you fall for.

_You haven't fallen for anyone, Jenny Shepard._

Jenny met her own eyes in the mirror.

"It's just sex," she said curtly, aloud again.

She turned her back on herself, and got in the scalding hot shower, and she thought if this was how hot Hell was, it wasn't going to be that bad.

* * *

References: _The Bridges of Madison County_ (novel/film that focuses on an affair), Strangers on a Train (novel/film about two seemingly unconnected crimes), Michael Jackson again, Aesop's Fables (lion/mouse/thorn in paw), NCIS Season 7 Episode "_Obsession"_ (rule 10), NCIS Season 3 Episode "_Deception_" ("don't calle me sir", although here it's "Ma'am", and it's Jen's line)

_Ya'll's feedback, on the last two chapters especially, has been amazing; I'm thriving on your outlooks! _  
-Alexandra


	12. Whiskey Diva

_A/N: I did a lot of research on whiskey for this chapter, let me tell you. I wore my dad out questioning him. Speaking of this chapter: lo and behold, the title comes to light!_

_Everybody ready for the return of NCIS tonight?!_

_Note on Jenny's_ _Past:__ As I've stated before, I have several flexible headcanons for Jenny's backstory (since we aren't given much) but the one I most closely hold to regarding her mother is that Mother Shepard bailed on Jenny when she was young, which was why she clung to her dad so much. Here I've just added that her parents were scarily young when she was born. _

_"It's too much pain to have to bear to love a man you have to share." -Sugarland; 'Stay.' [Playlist]_

* * *

_Chapter Eleven: Whiskey Diva  
_

Jenny flung open her front door and raised her eyebrows. She put her palm on the door frame and pursed her lips, holding a handful of ice cubes delicately as her other arm dangled by her hip.

"Impeccable timing," she remarked to the man standing on her porch.

"Yeah?" he asked, blue eyes roaming lazily over her figure.

"Yeah," she agreed. "You're lucky I happened to be in the kitchen, or I'd never have heard you knocking."

He tilted his head, glanced at the ice cubes, and then eyed her attire. She had a ball cap on and her hair tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. She was barefoot, barelegged, and bare-everything, really, because she was in a French cut, faded green bikini with some sort of horse logo on the right breast. Her cap had _Georgetown_ scrawled elegantly across the top, and someone had written the initials _J.M.S._ in black sharpie.

"What's the 'M' stand for?" he drawled, nodding at the cap and smirking. Purposely pretending he was unfazed by the bikini.

She glanced up at the bill of her cap.

"You mean you don't _know_?" she asked, feigning shock. "Morgan," she answered, after a brief pause in which she seemed to debate whether or not she was going to tell him.

"Your ice is melting," he pointed out blithely.

It was. It was dripping through her fingers and down her thigh, and it was cold and uncomfortable.

"Mm, so it is," she said. She tilted her head and indicated he was allowed to come in.

He shut the door behind him and watched her tuck an escaping strand of hair behind her ear and cup her ice in both palms to run damage control. She looked over her shoulder at him and jerked her head towards the kitchen. He started to follow her, and his eyes were immediately drawn to her backside.

The word POLO was stamped across her ass in gold lettering.

He cringed, tried not to remember that Diane wore the same designer brand in golf gear, and followed her through her kitchen to the covered back porch, which she walked straight through and out into her small but well kept, fenced in back yard.

"What're you doin', Jen, playin' in the sprinklers?"

"Tanning," she answered mildly, turning to look at him as she came to a stop by her lawn chair and a plastic table sitting next to it. She dropped most of the ice cubes into a bowl and sat down on the chair, holding one up to her neck and rubbing it around on her skin.

"It's hot as hell out here," Gibbs bitched.

"That's the idea," she answered, quirking a brow. "I'd guess Lucifer has a damn nice tan."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes and gave her a suspicious look.

"You don't tan. You're a redhead."

She laughed and picked up a longneck of Heineken, giving him a wry look.

"Ah, I forgot you're a connoisseur of redheads," she said mockingly. "I'm a genetic anomaly," she said mysteriously. "Did you notice I don't have freckles, Jethro?"

"I've been _pretty close_ to your face."

"Among other things," she snorted. She put her beer down. "My mother is very Irish, but I only got the hair and the eyes," she paused. "Well, and the middle name."

"What'd you get from the old man?" Gibbs asked. He grabbed one of her plastic lawn chairs and dragged it up near her little table. She tilted her head at him and eyed him intently for a moment, her mouth tightening a little.

He immediately sensed her father was a sore subject. But, to his surprise, she finally did answer.

"He was from California," she said curtly. "He liked the sun."

"Past tense?" Gibbs prodded stupidly.

She shot him a warning look.

"You aren't my doctor, Jethro, so why the sudden interest in my family history?" she asked primly.

He held up his hands.

"Don't ask," she said demurely, trailing her ice cube down her chest and back up to her neck as it melted to nothing in her grip. "Don't tell."

She didn't question him about his family or past; therefore he had no right to do so.

"Didn't take you for a Clinton fan," Gibbs said gruffly.

Jenny scoffed. She picked up her sunglasses, slipped them on, and then stretched out on her stomach on her lawn chair, folding her arms under her head gracefully.

"Clinton is a babe," she retorted, dead serious. "He was the first president I voted for," she added.

Gibbs was then forced to remember how young Jenny actually was. He rarely thought about it; she was competent, skilled, and educated—and didn't run around wild acting like a woman in her early twenties but she _was—how_ old had she said she was, twenty-five?

He leaned back and looked over at her, his eyes following the curve of her body as he took her in from ball-cap covered red hair to bare feet.

"There's beer in the fridge," she said lazily.

He went and got one, frowning at the lack of Corona. He settled for her stupid Heineken longnecks and wandered back out into the backyard.

"Want me to rub sunscreen on you?" he asked slyly, popping the bottle cap on the side of her house—after he'd made sure she wasn't looking—and sitting back down when he'd thrown it away.

"What are you, sixteen?" she retorted. She shook her head, and he saw a smile dance across her lips. "Already done," she murmured.

Her skin had a thin sheen of sweat mixed with melted ice mixed with sunblock buttered over it, and she smelled like the beach.

"Did you come over just to hang out, Jethro?" Jenny asked playfully.

He leaned back in his chair and took a swig of beer.

"No, I came to flirt," he answered, deadpan.

She laughed, and though he couldn't see it for the sunglasses, she rolled her eyes.

"What _are_ you doing here in the middle of a Saturday?"

Just like him being there in the morning, his being around on the weekend was a rarity. There was just no easy way to, ah, explain away his absence if it wasn't a work day—and while Saturday nights were easier because he could be called in, Saturday days were usually reserved for his being home and doing…well, whatever Gibbs did when he was home.

She realized she didn't know what that was.

"She's at a conference in Baltimore," he answered vaguely.

_She_, the ever present _She_. They never mentioned her name directly, and the way they said She was just inherently with a capital _S_. It was the same with _Her_. She, Her, and if they were feeling particularly wild, they'd throw the words 'your wife' or 'my wife' into the face of Karma.

"Oh, while the cat's away," Jenny murmured suggestively.

He snorted.

"Have you forgiven me for being right?" she asked smugly, lifting her head and whipping her glasses off. She quirked an eyebrow and parted her lips, refusing to let him blow her off with her glare.

He gave her a look and became very interested in his beer.

"Hmm, thought so," she mused. "You should _flatter_ me, Gibbs. You know Fornell keeps trying to steal me for the FBI," she went on haughtily.

"I _flatter_ you plenty," he growled at her pointedly.

She laughed.

"Ooh, someone's confident," she teased. "How do you know I'm not faking it?"

He raised his eyebrow. She smiled and flicked her hat up a little, tilting her chin down.

"Tell me you've at least watched _Strangers on a Train_?" she asked.

She could tell by the scoff on his face that he hadn't, and she clicked her tongue, shaking her head. It had been a tense and awkward case; no leads had turned up for anything, and then a focus on Jenny's _Strangers on a Train_ theory had been frustrating, murky, and a legal minefield that eventually became clear and ended up being the answer.

And Gibbs had rarely made an appearance at her brownstone during the whole thing, which bothered her on a professional and a personal level, and meant she had nothing to distract her from the horrible rapport she'd had with Burley since she'd socked him.

"Don't have a TV in my basement," he drawled.

"You spend your free time in your basement?" she asked skeptically. "Is that where you keep the Batmobile?"

He glared at her.

She glared playfully right back.

"Is it? Your little cave where you hide from Poison Ivy and brood about bad guys?"

She felt a pang of remorse; that was the second time today she'd insulted his wife, and she didn't know why she was doing it. She had nothing against her; she didn't know her—maybe, on some level, Jenny was doing it to make _herself_ look more appealing to Gibbs.

That needed to stop, too; she had no time for that.

He glared at her still.

"I work on my boat," he said.

She stared at him.

"Your boat?" she repeated. "I thought Burley was kidding when he said you built boats in your basement."

"Why would he make that up?" Gibbs asked skeptically, and she realized he was right—that was an insane thing to just _make up_ about somebody. She pursed her lips and nodded her head.

"Do all Marines build boats, or is it just you?" she asked, deadpan.

He picked up one of the ice cubes in her bowl and chucked it at her. She ducked her head and the movement knocked her hat off; she laughed, and strands of hair stuck to her lips, cheeks, and forehead.

"It's hot, Jen," he complained, watching her pick up another ice cube.

She lifted her eyes to his and sucked on the melting cube slowly, her eyebrows going up seductively.

"Then take your clothes off, Jethro," she answered coolly. "That's what the fence is for."

He just looked at her like she needed to be told how to be decent in public, so she gave him a challenging shake of the head and sat up. She tore her hair out of its knotty, messy bun and ran her hands through it, making a face. She downed the rest of her Heineken and stood up, waltzing over in front of him.

"Are you chicken?" she asked.

"Not gonna work, Jen," he said placidly.

"No?" she took his beer from his hand, sipped it slowly, and then set it aside. She leaned down, one hand on the arm of his lawn chair, and the other at her neck behind her. She pulled loose the string of her halter bikini top.

Before it could fall and bare all, she caught it around front.

He put his hands on her hips.

"Don't think this is a good way to cool off," he said hoarsely.

She let her top fall into his lap and then put her hands on his thighs.

"I've got ice," she said huskily, and pressed her lips to his.

* * *

Jenny reached behind her, gathered the hair that had been trapped beneath the collar of her button-down cover up, and flipped it loose, letting it fall messily down her back. She pushed up the sleeves to her elbows and fanned her face, breathing out a slow sigh of relief as she basked in air conditioning.

Close on her heels, Gibbs came into the kitchen behind her, towel thrown over his shoulder, holding his shirt in his hands. He threw it on the kitchen table, and watched as she opened the fridge and bent over.

"'Nother beer?" she asked, a little breathlessly. "Or something harder?"

"Bourbon," he answered.

She shook her head a little as she got herself another Heineken and turned around, letting the fridge's cold air wash over her. She plucked a magnetic bottle opener off the fridge door and popped the cap off the beer.

"I've got scotch," she answered.

He gave her a look.

"What?" she asked. "It's whiskey; it's the same thing," she said airily, shutting the fridge.

She started to take a sip of her beer and then realized he was looking at her as if she'd just tried to tell him that the Marines and the Army were the same thing—which, as the daughter of an _army_ colonel, she knew was very wrong. She lowered her longneck and stared back at him.

"_What_?" she repeated.

"'_The same thing'_"? he quoted back to her.

"It's all _whiskey_!" she retorted insistently.

"It's apples and oranges, Jen!"

"Okay, Mr. _Expert_," Jenny snapped, arching her eyebrow. "What's the damn difference?"

"Scotch is made in _Scotland._"

She compressed her lips and looked unconvinced and skeptical.

"Jen," he said, throwing his t-shirt down on the table and holding his hands up as if to explain something very, very serious to someone very, very uninformed. "Scotch is made from malted barley and aged three years at the _least_. Bourbon is made in the Kentucky from sour mash and distilled in charred oak barrels."

She stared at him with wide eyes.

"Right," she said slowly, narrowing her eyes intently as she accepted the fact that her boss had just schooled her in alcohol. "So, you _don't_ want the scotch?"

He looked like he was about to have a fit until he realized she was teasing, and he shook his head. She tilted her head thoughtfully and then put the beer down, holding up her hand for him to stay in the kitchen. She went off into the Colonel's study and checked his stash, and then returned with a nearly empty bottle. She placed it on the table.

"Here; we've got a little Jack Daniels," she said, smirking proudly.

He glared at her.

"Jen, that's _Tennessee_ whiskey."

She blinked at him blankly.

"It's _different_," he whined. "It wasn't made in Kentucky."

She blinked again, startled, her hand still around the neck of the old bottle of apparently unsatisfactory _Tennessee_ whiskey.

"Pardon me, Jethro, I didn't know you were such an alcoholic."

"It's not alcoholism; it's taste."

"Sorry, when I said _alcoholic_, I meant _diva_."

He glared at her again, and then he grabbed his shirt off the table and jerked it over his head, rubbing his hand over his forehead and jaw to wipe sweat off of his face. He came up next to her, snaked his arm around her waist, and gave her an annoyed, pointed look before narrowing his eyes and pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. He released her and stormed into the hall. She heard his keys jingling and couldn't help but let out a laugh.

"Where the hell are you going?" she asked, giggling as she darted after him and poked her head around the corner. "Is my ignorance that offensive to you? Or did I hurt your feelings?" she puckered her lower lip and pouted at him mockingly.

"You're tellin' me you've never had good bourbon," he growled, pointing at her accusingly.

"I don't know, maybe mixed in some jungle juice at a freshman year frat party," she said, smirking again. "I drink _beer_, Jethro, and I get drunk off tequila!" she protested defensively.

He grabbed his wallet and shoved it into his back pocket, and then wrenched open her front door.

"_Where_ are you _going_?" she demanded again, still half-laughing.

"Liquor store," he answered vaguely, and the next thing she knew he'd slammed her door and left her standing in her foyer, in a bikini and a light denim button down, two-parts baffled and two-parts amused that he'd just thrown such a hissy fit at the mere _suggestion_ of drinking scotch.

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me," Jenny remarked, her eyes wide, as she looked at the price on the receipt Gibbs had just thrown on the table.

"It's good stuff," he growled, ignoring her look. He pulled a sealed bottle out of a brown paper bag and set it on the table next to her old Jack Daniels. As he crumpled up the bag and went to toss it, she tilted the bottle back by its smooth glass neck and eyed the label.

The label was an off-whitish beige colour, and the liquor inside was a clear-muddy amber.

_Wild Turkey_.

She raised her brows.

"Got any crystal?" he asked.

"In the study," she answered, and before she could stop him, he'd snatched the bottle and the Jack from her and marched off into the study. She went after him, flipping the light on, and pointed towards the cabinet where all of her father's Scotch and brandy lived.

"Key?"

"It's unlocked," she said.

He pulled out two tumblers and set them on her father's desk; she watched as he poured the last bit of Jack into one, and a generous amount of the Wild Turkey into another. He turned around and held them both out to her.

She held up her palm to the Jack.

"I've had Mr. Daniels," she said. "I know what it tastes like."

He wouldn't be stopped, though, and insisted she take it—so she did; she tossed back the shot, made a mild face, and licked her lips, nodding her head. He then held out the Wild Turkey. She took it from him and swirled the liquid around in the glass, holding it delicately to her nose.

"Is this a test?" she asked. "Or are you tryin' to get me drunk?"

"Already seen you drunk," he retorted, arching his brow. "You're really loud."

A blush bloomed over her features, and he smirked, nodding at the glass in her hand. She lifted it to her lips and smiled at him coquettishly over the crystal, her mouth curving lightly around the edge. She breathed in the heady scent of the bourbon and then tilted her head back, shooting the Wild Turkey just like she had the Jack Daniels.

She squeezed her eyes shut as her throat caught fire, and she swallowed quickly, fiercely resisting the urge to cough. She shivered a little and lowered the glass, opening her eyes and meeting his finally. Her vision blurred and snapped back clearly and she licked her lips.

"Damn," she swore huskily. "That's stout," she remarked.

He smirked smugly, as if he was personally responsible for making the bourbon. He poured her another glass, and poured himself a good amount into the other tumbler.

"It's better out of a mason jar," he remarked.

She folded one arm across her stomach and stood looking at him coolly, holding her re-filled crystal near to her mouth as she eyed him. She wondered what he thought about when he was sitting alone in his woodshop basement.

Gibbs glanced over at the other liquors in her cabinet; the finest aged scotch and brandies that had been a gift to the Colonel from dignitaries overseas. He raised his eyebrows and then looked back at her.

"Who's 'we'?" he asked.

She furrowed her brow sharply.

"What?" she asked.

"You said 'we'," he reminded her, "when you told me you had Jack. You said 'we have'."

She put her lips on the edge of her tumbler again and sucked lightly, considering taking the rest of her bourbon in a shot. She let her eyes drift to the alcohol in the glass cabinets, suddenly acutely aware that some of her father's decorations were displayed, and there were a few pictures pushed far in the back. She cut her eyes back to Gibbs and puckered her lips a little severely.

"The whiskeys aren't mine," she said neutrally. "They were my father's."

"Scotch kinda guy?" Gibbs asked.

She crinkled her nose.

"Scotch kinda guy," she agreed, lowering her glass a little.

"How'd Jack get involved?"

Jenny gave him a warning look, but, because she'd had a couple beers and now she had whiskey in her system, she answered.

"It was my Mom's."

"She left when you were young," Gibbs remembered.

She blinked, hiding her shock effectively. She vaguely remembered snapping that at him on her first day—she'd said that her mom left when she was very young.

"Well, she was only about fifteen years older than me," Jenny retorted, with just a hint of bitterness in her tone. "Can you blame her?"

"Yeah," he answered, and his eyes flashed with annoyance. She raised her brows, surprise that he'd reacted in such a way. He seemed…appalled at the idea that a woman would abandon her child—but then, that was Gibbs. Old-fashioned.

"I was better off without her, Jethro," Jenny said, mocking him a little. "Don't worry about lil' ole me."

This time, she did shoot back the bourbon, and before he could say anything else, she moved close and set the glass down next to the bottle, tilted her head fetchingly, her eyes sparkling a little.

"Anything else you want to know, Gibbs?" she asked. "How old I was when I lost my virginity, maybe? Or are you going to ask why I dropped out of law school again?"

He took a drink of his own bourbon, and they were so close that his glass brushed her lips lightly as he did so. He swallowed, breathed deeply, and shrugged his broad shoulders, leaning back against her desk.

"You can have an answer to one of those," she challenged, because she thought he'd pick the former.

But he didn't. Nosy bastard and his investigative blood.

"Law school," he said.

"I was going to be a defense attorney," she said curtly. "Private sector. Big Bucks," she paused, and then went on: "Guilty clients." Jenny licked her lips. "I got disillusioned," she hissed, and then looked off, remembering thoughtfully. "They were teaching us to defend murderers, embezzlers," she broke off again. "Arms dealers."

"You decided to catch 'em instead."

"Noble, aren't I?" Jenny said cattily.

"No," he answered. "_Good_," he remarked firmly, lifting his glass to his lips again.

She intercepted it, and took a drink, the shiver flitting through her eyes and creeping up her spine. Did he mean she was good, as in good at her job? Good sexually? Or…good, a good person—inherently good? She didn't know; but she knew she didn't feel like a good woman.

He reached out and touched her hip. She'd put on shorts over her bikini bottoms while he'd run his liquor errand, and she still had her denim button-down on, buttoned loosely to reveal her bikini top. His fingers played with the hem of her shorts.

"Let's fuck," she said bluntly.

So he tugged harder on her shorts and pulled them down, and she stepped out of them and slipped her palms up to his neck.

* * *

Gibbs tipped the delivery guy on Jenny's porch and then shut her front door, balancing the Chinese food in one hand as chucked his wallet onto her hall table. He strolled back into the study languidly and set the food on the coffee table, sitting down on the edge of the couch and picking up a carton of Chow Mein.

"Jenny," he called, opening it and waving it under her nose. "I brought food," he bribed.

She was sprawled on her stomach, covered in a blanket, and half-dressed in her button-down. Her hair was a mess and her arm was dangling off the couch, knuckles brushing the carpet. She stirred sleepily and lifted her head, blinking. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and looked over.

"Mmmm," she murmured, her eyes lighting up some. "Kung-Pow chicken?" she asked, groggy and hopeful.

He grunted an affirmative and pointed out the carton; she sat up and adjusted her shirt around her, buttoning it to cover her naked breasts. She looked around, rubbing her neck tensely, and he realized what she was looking for; he picked a pair of panties up off the floor near him and threw them to her. She slipped them on, and then blinked herself awake, giving him a look.

"You're gonna wash your hands, right?" she asked, as she reached for her own carton of food.

He paused with his chopsticks, glaring at her.

"Are you?" he retorted, as she picked up her own.

She froze a little guiltily, and then nodded. She stood up and stretched. She'd probably slept off all the alcohol in her system by now, though they'd spent more than a few hours taking shots and fooling around all over the house like horny teenagers. They'd ended up back in the study, though, and that's where she'd fallen fast asleep around four.

"How long was I out?" she asked thickly, standing up and slipping past him. He followed her to the kitchen and stood close to her as she turned on the sink and warmed the water, soaping up her hands.

"'Bout three and a half hours," he answered, soaping up his hands as well.

"It's after _seven_?" she asked in disbelief. "What did you _do_?" she questioned.

He shrugged and gave a non-committal grunt, running his hands under water. He'd just sort of hung out while she'd slept; flipped through the books on her coffee table, thought about excuses to stay until she woke up instead of going home to a painfully empty house and a morose basement project.

Jenny blew air out of her lips as she dried her hands. She pushed the towel into his chest and shook her hair back again.

"Jesus, was it the bourbon that made the sex that good?" she asked hazily, looking down at his wrinkled shirt and resisting the urge to reach out and touch his abdomen. He grinned at her smugly and shook his head.

"Nah, it's me," he said, and that time she did touch his stomach—she hit him with the back of her hand playfully. He pushed her away and she giggled, cradling her hand away from his grasp. She looked up to say something smart and he kissed her lips, his hand wrapping around her waist and holding her close.

Her eyes popped open in mild surprise at the intimacy of the gesture, but she leaned in.

She mumbled into his lips.

"What?" he asked huskily.

"I said the food's getting cold," she repeated, and wriggled out of his grasp. She went back to the study, and she sat on the edge of the sofa and pulled her chicken towards her with a pleased smile. "Ooh, you know me so well," she said gleefully, breathing in the delicious smell.

He picked up their abandoned glasses from the desk, but she shook her head.

"No, I'm done for now," she said with a laugh. She started to get up, but he said he'd get it, and he came back with a bottle of water for her. She took it, and looked at him over it as she took the first refreshing drink. He poured himself a full glass of bourbon, and she looked at him intently as she swallowed.

"Jethro," she asked hesitantly. He stopped and looked at her, about to sit down. She bit her bottom lip and nodded at the glass. "You okay?" she asked. He seemed to be…drinking a lot.

Her comment infused the moment with a tense awkwardness; he glanced at the glass and gave her a sharp look.

"It's just whiskey, Jen," he blew her off. She nodded and shrugged, and as she plunged her chopsticks into her carton, she suddenly didn't want to be in her father's study anymore. A flush touched her cheeks, and she leaned back.

"You know what," she said briskly. "Let's move this upstairs," she said, standing and picking up her food. She left her blanket and some discarded clothing on the floor; she'd deal with it later.

"The bedroom?" he asked skeptically.

She shook her head in the negative.

"Nah, spare room," she explained, beckoning to him. She left, and he followed after a moment with the rest of the food and his drink.

"Where the boxes are?" He was on her heels on the stairs and she snorted, shaking her head again.

"Hey, I've cleaned it up," she shot back. "My TV's up there," she elaborated. "It's like a den area," she added airily, and led him in.

It was tidier than he'd last seen it; the last few boxes were stacked neatly in the corner and she had bookshelves and a bureau against the walls, as well as the sofa she'd promised and a TV and VCR set up. She gestured to the wooden table near the couch and he spread the food out there.

"Now that you let me sleep all afternoon," she said dryly, "I've got to find something to do while I'm up all night." She put her food on the table and crouched before her television. After a moment, she turned and held up a VHS to him, arching a brow smugly. "You up for _Strangers on a Train_, or are you a sore loser?"

He glared at her, offended by the challenge.

She grinned and put it in, grabbing the remote and looking around. He sat down on the couch and leaned back, throwing one leg up on the couch and keeping the other on the ground. She sat down near his knee and messed with the remote, pushing her hair back in frustration.

"Aha!" she said triumphantly, when she finally got it working.

"This gonna bore me?" he asked, rolling his eyes at her.

She turned and looked at him saucily.

"If it does we can always make-out, _dude_," she said in an exaggerated tone, wiggling her brows. "If you're lucky you'll get my bra unclasped."

"You're not wearing a bra," he pointed out.

She just cocked a brow at him and shook her head in amusement. The previews on the tape started, and she didn't bother fast-forwarding through them; she grabbed her food and leaned back against his knee, shifting uncomfortably.

"C'mere," he growled, leaning forward and dragging her towards him. She shrieked in surprise and kicked a little at the tugging, but he successfully pulled her between his legs and into his arms. She leaned into his chest in welcome defeat, her head resting on his shoulder.

He picked at her food, and she stole his bourbon for a sip, ignoring her earlier refusal of alcohol.

"Hmm," she said, as she handed him back his bourbon. "When do I get to ask you probing personal questions?" she asked mockingly, arching her brow as she munched on some noodles.

He snorted derisively.

"Never."

"Not fair," she said mildly.

"I'm your boss," he said.

She gasped in mock outrage.

"You're pulling rank?" she said, with an ironic laugh. "You bastard," she accused, tilting her head back. She pursed her lips at him wryly. "I'll get your secrets out of you, Jethro," she said wickedly, lowering her voice sexily.

He scoffed at her, and cupped her chin, and tilted her head back and kissed her roughly. He let his palm slide over her neck and to her shoulder, rubbing her arm absently and a little possessively.

He took another swallow of bourbon. It was late July. Shannon's birthday was in July.

She blinked up at him as he picked at her food again, letting him have at it even though he _insisted_ he didn't like Kung-Pow chicken. It didn't matter; he _always_ picked at her damn food when they shared Chinese on these illicit, stolen nights. He looked comfortable and relaxed; but his jaw was set tensely at the same time. The light from the TV flickered in his blue eyes, and then he looked down at her unexpectedly and she almost lost her breath—his eyes were so intoxicating, so piercing.

"Are you staying the night?" she asked softly, blurting the words out in a sheepish, almost-hopeful tone before she could stop herself. She felt ridiculous for wanting that so badly, but she couldn't help it. He never stayed the night because he couldn't, but he'd said _she_ was away in Baltimore, and maybe this once she could have him until morning—

"That okay with you?" he asked gruffly, his hand back at her neck, stroking her collarbone lightly.

She pursed her lips to suppress a soft, content smile that she didn't think he had a right to see, and she nodded. She turned back to her food, and she pinched his fingers with her chopsticks when he went for her food again. She snickered and looked up at the movie, as the studio's logo appeared and the opening credits neared.

"Hey!" she spoke up suddenly, snuggling back into him and smirking devilishly. She parted her lips and bit into another piece of chicken. "When did _you_ lose your virginity, _Jethro_?" she asked slyly.

"_Christ_, Jen."

"You can give me that," she prodded. "That's no deep dark secret," she said, and then put on a sober face. "Unless you were thirty. Then it's something you _never_ tell."

He made an outraged noise.

"You first," he retorted snarkily.

Jenny took a swig of his bourbon and a deep breath.

"Sixteen," she answered, without missing a beat. "In my first boyfriend's old tree house. It was very disappointing."

"Even with all the wood around?" Gibbs joked, deadpan.

She elbowed him lightly in the ribs and snorted.

"Believe me, the tree house stayed hard the longest," she revealed, and tilted her head back to eye him primly. "Stop stalling."

He lifted the bourbon to his lips and looked at her with guarded eyes, considering her for a moment. His glare made her breathe more slowly, and she arched an eyebrow, patiently waiting for him to give her something, since she suddenly felt like she'd given him so much today-and that was so dangerous.

"Twenty," he muttered gruffly into his bourbon.

She stared at him for a split second, unsure if she'd heard correctly, and then burst into laughter. She covered her mouth quickly and apologetically, trying to muffle it, and closed her eyes.

"Was it a religious thing or were you just a late bloomer?" she teased lightly, squeezing his thigh next to her. She tilted her head on his shoulder and smiled at him, pursing her lips playfully. He glared at her and shook his head in annoyance, his jaw tightening. She giggled again taking a deep breath.

She rubbed his thigh soothingly and sighed, leaning back into him again.

The movie had started. She laughed quietly again, somewhat…awed by his revelation. She found herself thinking it was cute, and then violently shook that thought away; it was too intimate, too familiar, too…relationship-ish. She had to forgo those thoughts.

"It was her," he said gruffly.

"You don't have to defend your manhood, Jethro, you're plenty good in bed," she responded honestly. "Even _if_ you got a late start," Jenny added slyly. She smirked, but she was interested. Maybe he was drunker than he thought he was. She capitalized on it, and patronized him: "Who's _her_?"

"The girl," he said curtly. "Wanted to wait."

Jenny smiled a little to herself.

"That's nice, Jethro," she said quietly, complimenting him. "Who was the lucky lady?" she asked wryly.

"My first wife," he answered bluntly, and there was something raw to his tone. She sensed he hadn't planned on telling her that, and she paused, watching the movie for a moment. She nodded to herself, letting it soak in for a moment, and then, just to make conversation—and show that she could play his games, too, she said:

"Stacy?"

Because she remembered Ducky had told her that was his first wife's name, and she wanted to show Gibbs that there were things she knew about him, just like he was always catching her off guard by _knowing_ things about her.

Gibbs was unprepared for her to mention Stacy; he was taken aback and he was instantly aggressive and protective of Shannon's memory. He didn't want that part of his life attributed to Stacy, he wanted it attributed to the right woman, and because he'd been drinking and he felt dangerously safe with Jenny and he _was_ so startled, he corrected her.

"Shannon," he said it without thinking and a little roughly, and then he set his jaw tightly and took a long drink of bourbon to distract himself. He'd blindsided himself, and he didn't know how to handle the situation; his first instinct was to leave, but he waited to see what Jenny would do.

Her brow furrowed as she looked at the television screen and she stopped chewing, confused.

She was sure Ducky had said Stacy, but then, Ducky could be wrong. Gibbs was the one who'd been married to her. Jenny rested her head more heavily on Gibbs shoulder and shrugged a little to herself.

"Oh," she said, and yawned, breathing in deeply.

Something nagged at the back of her mind, but she didn't know what she could possibly say to assuage the unexpected stress that this brief exchange had put on her, and she directed herself to be absorbed in the movie. She cleared her throat and shifted forward.

"I'm turning the light off," she said breezily.

She walked across the room, flicked them into darkness with a simple switch, and then curled back into Gibbs' lap with her chopsticks, his bourbon, and his arm slung lazily over her shoulder.

* * *

Diane rolled her eyes in minor irritation as she walked back to the table the delegation from her hospital was assigned to. She pulled out her chair and sat down, crossing her legs and turning back to the salad in front of her.

"Did you get ahold of your husband?" a colleague next to her asked conversationally.

Diane shook her head and rolled her eyes again.

"Unsurprisingly, no," she answered. She waved her hand to dismiss the question as if it were nothing. "I can never get ahold of that man, he's always working," she said.

"Or hiding," piped up one of her male counterparts. He grinned at her across the table. "Least, that's what I'm doing when I have the nurses tell my wife I'm busy."

"Carter, I know your wife, and she's calling to make sure you're still at work so she can sleep with the gardener," the woman next to Diane teased.

Kenneth Carter cocked his eyebrow and shook his head, raising his glass to her in a toast.

"Why don't you call him at work?" Alison Mason asked Diane, winking at Kenneth good-naturedly.

Diane raised her brows.

"Government switchboards are a nightmare," she muttered, "and if he's there, he'll have someone say he's in the field."

"So I guess Leroy's the same old dick, then," Alison said with a shrug.

Diane glanced at her colleague sharply, but said nothing. She didn't take well to other people bluntly insulting Leroy, but it was sort of an eye opener. The little comments people made about her husband's boorishness bothered her because it made her wonder if they thought she was stupid for remaining married to him. Then, they didn't know him like she did.

At least, that's what she told herself when she was trying to forget that she didn't really know if she knew Leroy at all.

"What do you think about the new techniques, Diane?" Kenneth asked.

"I don't know," she answered skeptically. "There can't ever be anything wrong with moving forward, but it's adding so much technology…" she trailed off.

"Technology that could cut recovery time in half," Alison broke in loftily.

Diane shot her a look.

"It could cut our work load in half for the same pay," Alison added smugly.

Diane glared at her. She was beginning to think Alison was a bitch; before this conference, she'd never much worked with her.

"I've always enjoyed working with my patients," Diane said, a bit icily. "I think it's relaxing. It's a good connection for them to have. The person-to-person encouragement is loads more helpful than some machine helping them work out muscle kinks."

Alison shrugged, unconvinced.

"I love the way things move forward so quickly now," she said. "Computers are the most convenient thing."

"Well, people frequently lose out to convenience," Diane said shortly.

"I agree with you there, Diane," Kenneth said soberly. He leaned back in his chair, holding a glass of tea thoughtfully. He seemed about to say something else, and then shook his head and changed subjects. "You playing in the scramble tomorrow?" he asked, looking at both women.

"No," Alison said, making a face. "I've got a terrible golf game. I signed up for tennis with the team from Philadelphia."

"I'm playing," Diane said.

"Want to partner up?" Kenneth asked, and flashed a winning, sparkling smile at her. She smirked, well aware he was just asking because he knew her handicap was killer.

"I had a mind to impress the Princeton guys, not embarrass myself," she teased him wryly, stabbing a bunch of lettuce onto her fork. She pretended to think it over. "But I figure showing a united front is better than throwing you to the wolves," she sighed.

He snickered and shook his head at her.

"You crack me up, Peterson," he said. He still called her by her maiden name most of the time; he'd known her long before she was married to Gibbs. "I can't imagine why Leroy doesn't see what's in front of his face."

Diane smiled, thought it didn't reach her eyes.

Kenneth Carter's off-hand comment convinced her that they all did think she was an idiot. Alison Mason was no doubt just one of those women who liked to put down or one-up, but Kenneth was a friend. If he had beef with Leroy, he was to be taken seriously—and Diane wasn't so aware that it was obvious she was having issues with her marriage.

The redhead swallowed her bit of salad and wiped her mouth, excusing herself again. She left the dining room, and the banquet, and found the payphone in the hall again. She picked it up and stared at the dial pad for a moment, blinking slowly, and considering her move. She hadn't gotten ahold of Leroy once this weekend—where the hell _was_ he?

In that moment while she wondered, she hated him—hated him for making her look pathetic to her colleagues, and hated him for making her feel this bitter and desperate all at once.

* * *

Jenny rubbed her knees slowly and blinked groggily in the sunlight as she watched Gibbs stalking around her bedroom gathering his things. His eyes were narrow and sharp as he checked to make sure he had everything, his wedding ring glinted snugly on his left ring finger; he slipped his wallet into his back pocket and picked up his wrinkled shirt off the bed.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he said gruffly, straightening out his shirt and sitting down to pull socks on.

She shrugged and forced a yawn, though it was unconvincing.

"I was up," she muttered vaguely; she had been, too. A nightmare had woken her up early before dawn, and she'd only been able to fitfully sleep until seven—after which she'd lain close to his side and stared at him sleepily, until he'd awoken abruptly-and she'd immediately pretended to be fast asleep. It was a game, really—which one of them could be less concerned about this situation.

She rubbed her eyes and stretched, getting out of bed. Her legs brushed his as she stood and he reached out to run his palm over her bare thigh, his fingers light and warm, calloused from woodwork and yet soft at the same time. She reached up and gathered her hair in a bunch on top of her head, then let it tumble down her back—she knew he liked to watch—and walked to her bureau, where she pulled out an old t-shirt and threw it on.

She chose a pair of faded blue panties and pulled them on, as well, while he sat forward and eyed her shirt.

"Army," he scoffed, cutting his eyes at her derisively.

She cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Going to insult the memory of a dead man, Jethro?" she asked.

Every piece of military related clothing she had was army, and it was all acquired at some point from her army colonel father.

He snorted.

"Rather see you in a Marine shirt," he said huskily, standing up and striding over to her. She held him off and shook her head, laughing hoarsely, her voice still thick with sleep.

"Oh, go home," she said, swatting him away.

He kissed her mouth aggressively, and she gave back just as eagerly, her tongue slipping between his lips like it has been months instead of hours. Innately, body and soul, she knew they were on thin ice, and the moments of his that were hers were scarce, so each time she tried to take more of him, more to hold onto, more to keep. He groaned softly and pulled away, rubbing his forehead.

She leaned against her bureau and blew out a breath between her lips; she glanced over at the clock on her bedside table.

"Don't you have to be at church?" she asked seriously.

It was closing in on nine o'clock, and she needed something to say.

He made a skeptical noise and smirked, raising an eyebrow.

"For what, confession?" he asked.

She tilted her head and pursed her lips.

"Nah, maybe the sixth commandment," she answered wryly.

"Never did memorize those," he said brusquely. "What was that one?"

She clicked her tongue.

"Learn by doing," she said vaguely, and lunged forward and pressed herself against him, pressing her lips to his collarbone, half on his shirt, half on his skin. "Go home," she murmured into his skin, breathing in.

"Yeah," he agreed into her hair, distracted a little, wracking his brains to figure out what the sixth commandment was. He pulled away and went out and down the stairs, and she stayed where she was while he pulled his shoes on at the foot of the steps. She pushed her hair back again, feeling empty, and hollow, and resisting the sudden ridiculous urge to dash down the stairs, throw her arms around him, and beg him to stay.

Jesus Christ, was she some hopeless teenager? Was she that pathetic—was she that far gone?

Unexpected tears sprung to her eyes and stung like fire; horrified, she choked them away and steeled herself coldly, swiftly following him out of the room. She leaned over the bannister on the third to last step, watching him holster his gun and get his ID and keys. She played with the edges of her hair, brushing them against her lips.

"_She_ can't take Amtrak home?" Jenny burst out bitterly, before she had a chance to stop herself.

Gibbs didn't answer, and he didn't look at her. He cleared his throat, and after a moment, he spoke up.

"She hates the train, Jen," he said neutrally. "Makes her sick."

Jenny hated it fiercely that he seemed to care; simultaneously, she found it painful and—and _sweet_; considerate.

But she didn't want to know about his wife's likes and dislikes, and she sure as hell didn't want to know what made Diane Gibbs sick—because she was pretty sure the discovery that her husband was fucking his colleague would top the list.

Gibbs turned to look at her, and she shrugged, taking the last few steps and lingering at the bottom of her stairs, waiting for him to open the door. She cocked an eyebrow caustically.

"Waiting for me to walk you out, _hon_?" she asked, touchy and mocking.

He shook his head mutely, his eyes falling to where her t-shirt hit the top of her thighs.

He swallowed.

"I want you in one of my shirts," he growled, out of the blue, startling her.

She caught her breath, her shoulders dropping a little weakly.

She rested her palm on her bannister.

"What're you going to do about it?" she challenged.

He stepped up to her in a single long stride and slipped his hands up her sides to her ribs, bunching that old army t-shirt in his hands and holding tight while he kissed her, pressing her back into the railing of her stairs. She seized his shoulder and the back of his neck, wrapping herself around him, pulling at his hair, and devouring his lips. She felt like she was going to break.

She moaned softly and held him tighter; the buckle of his belt pressed into her stomach, just above the line of her panties; her knees felt unsteady and she slouched a little, as if she would pull him to the floor with her. Why was _this_ kiss so different, so _powerful_?

He pulled away, and then his lips were on hers again, as if he'd made a mistake in thinking he was finished, and he kissed her jaw, and lingered at her neck, and then breathed in close to her ear, his lips brushing there, too. She grasped his neck in both hands and pulled his eyes up to hers, looking at him with wide, raw eyes.

"Come back to bed," she beckoned in a dry voice, starved for oxygen.

"I can't," he said huskily. He shook his head. "I _can't_, Jen."

He still had his arms around her. It was as if he was hugging her. She loosened her grip on him, but he didn't quite do the same to her. She wanted to tear herself free and turn her back on him. She pulled her arms towards herself and crossed them, hugging her shoulders. He rested is forehead on hers.

She flicked her gaze away.

His lips brushed her brow as he said goodbye.

"See you at work," he said in his rough voice.

She just waited for him to leave, and when she heard the door shut behind him, she sat down on her bottom step and covered her mouth with her hand. She pushed her hair back, holding it off her forehead and shoulders with one hand. For a split second, she was frozen in fear of the realization that loomed before her, and then the world started moving again, and she lowered her head to her knees and started to cry.

It was the first time she cried over him, and she hated him for it.

* * *

Her demeanor towards him cooled over the next few days, much like the weather did as September crawled slowly in. It wasn't as if it was a hugely noticeable difference; they had always been capable of keeping things mostly neutral and normal in the work place.

It was little things.

She didn't drink the coffee he brought her on Monday morning. Tuesday she volunteered quietly to pair up with Decker—she and Burley were still on the outs—and Wednesday she stayed late to study cold case files and do paperwork. It was Thursday afternoon when they were just back from their fourth crime scene of the week, irritated, exhausted, and wet from the rain, that it got under his skin and pissed him off a little; he hadn't seen her outside of work in days, hadn't touched her, hadn't kissed her, and he wanted it.

He _missed_ it.

Diane was snippy, cold, and aggressive at home. She was cleaning things and rearranging things. She'd pulled a box of Kelly's things out of the attic and left it with some other things by the bedroom door—he didn't know if she'd done it on purpose or not, but it was one of the few times he'd been provoked to yelling at her, and she'd come right back at him harshly, and then she'd cried.

It left him feeling hollow and drained. He missed his little girl, and today's crime scene hadn't helped. Sixteen-year-old Navy daughter kidnapped. Too much blood at the scene. He ached for comfort, for drink or for woodwork or—for Jen.

Gibbs rubbed his forehead, watching Burley and Decker chuck their muddy bags down by their desks with equal amounts of dubious irritation. He glanced at her, and she was looking distastefully at her sleeves; there was blood there. She shivered, and walked off towards the bathroom.

"Boss, this case take priority?" Burley asked half-heartedly.

Gibbs nodded curtly.

"Do all you can to find the girl," he ordered gruffly. "Decker," he said, standing and waving his hand at Decker's computer, "do your cross reference thing." He rubbed his jaw this time and then stormed off purposefully in the direction of the head.

He didn't exactly check to see if the coast was clear before he barged into the women's bathroom after Jenny.

She was at the sink when he swung the door open, and she jumped, startled, hitting her wrist on the faucet as she finished washing her hands.

"Dammit," she muttered, shooting him a glare in the mirror.

He let the swinging door slow and shut.

She methodically continued washing her hands.

"This is a women's bathroom, Gibbs," she said smartly. "I'd ask if you were hiding something, but I've seen you without your pants," she joked dryly.

He ignored her jibe.

"Shepard," he asked. "You okay?"

"The girl's dead."

"We don't know that. Haven't found her yet."

"She's dead," Jenny repeated dejectedly. "Just like that petty officer was Sunday night, just like that mother was Monday, and just like that chaplain was Tuesday. There was too much blood," she paused, and looked at her palms. She turned off the sink. "And I can't get it off my hands."

Gibbs tore off some paper towels and handed them to her; she started to dry off—she even started squeezing rainwater out of the edges of her ponytail.

"There's no blood on your hands."

"You remember that guy I shot back when I was new?"

"You're still new."

"Do you remember him?" she repeated, her brow furrowed stiffly.

"Yeah," he answered.

He remembered. Another rainy, miserable day, a stand-off, a shoot-out, trauma, a hot, messy, unforgiveable kick-start kiss in the basement of NCIS.

She didn't say anything else, just eyed her reflection, then touched her cheek and rubbed at smeared mascara. She pursed her lips, looking with some annoyance at the faded lipstick. She absently pulled her hair out of its ponytail and it fell, damp and creased, to her shoulders. She chewed on her bottom lip, and then turned to him and chucked the paper towels in the trash.

"What do you want?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. She put a hand on her hip. "You know there's no subtlety in following me into the restroom."

"What's your problem, Jen?" he asked aggressively, his jaw tightening.

Her green eyes flashed.

"_You_ are, Jethro," she said sardonically.

She started to stalk past him. He took her arm gently.

"What the hell'd I do?" he asked, starkly confused by her suddenly icy behavior. This weekend had been so good—too good, a taste of easy, a taste of something he'd missed and needed for too long.

She opened her mouth as if in outrage and then closed it, and shook her head. She stood up straight and shook her head.

"Not here," she said.

"Yeah?" he asked. "Where?" he reminded her they hadn't been together in days with that word. "Your place or mine?" he asked bitterly, and she almost slapped him—there, in the middle of the NCIS bathroom.

She shook his grip loose, albeit gently, and touched the handle on the bathroom door.

"You know where my spare key is," she said vaguely, offering the invitation as usual, and leaving it up to him.

* * *

The kidnapping case kept them at the Navy Yard throughout the night. They had ten leads in their hands shooting out in different directions, and it was imperative that they pick up on and let to take them where they needed to go.

"It wasn't her blood," Margaret said, turning around as Jenny breezed into the lab.

"What?" the redhead asked sharply, her eyes bloodshot, her tone exhausted. It was four in the morning, and they'd been waiting all night for these results—rushed results.

"The blood at the scene," Margaret repeated. "Some of it was hers, but the majority of it was cat's blood," she explained. "And the blood Stan found in her abandoned car, it was cat's blood, too."

Jenny turned around and kicked the nearest chair over, leaning heavily on one of Miller's metal tables.

"Calm down, Jenny."

"I can't calm down," Jenny snapped. "Cat's blood? What does that _mean_?"

"It means Claudia Callum hasn't lost as much blood as we originally thought," soothed Margaret matter-of-factly. "It means she's most likely not running out of time."

"Bullshit, she's running out of time," hissed Jenny. "And now I have to go tell Gibbs that all you identified is a load of _cat's_ blood."

"That's not all I found," Miller barked. "If you'd wait a minute and let me finish, you'd know that I found cotton fibers mixed in with the animal blood, most likely belonging to the kidnapper," she explained neutrally. "They're green and white, which matches the uniform sweaters from Claudia's private school."

Jenny looked over and her eyes widened.

"So you think a classmate has her?" she asked in disbelief.

"I don't know," Miller retorted. "But we know Claudia was not wearing her uniform when she was kidnapped—so whoever has been with her either had it, or was wearing it."

"Her mother thinks she was obsessed with one of her teachers," Jenny said thoughtfully.

"Well, maybe he got sick of a kid following him around," Margaret said with a blunt shrug. "The teachers have the same sweaters as the students, yeah?"

Jenny tilted her head back, furrowing her brow. She shook her head.

"I don't remember; I'm exhausted," she growled. "If we don't find this girl, Jethro is going to murder us all as atonement."

"The three of you can handle _Gibbs_, Jenny," Margaret said pointedly. "Just _find_ Claudia Callum."

* * *

Gibbs watched as Ensign Callum hugged his daughter in the conference room. The man seemed incapable of letting go of the hungry, beaten, and terrified sixteen-year-old, and Gibbs could only imagine the sheer mind-numbing relief that must be piercing every part of Ensign Callum as he held his daughter in his arms again.

Never mind that her mother's affair with the daughter's prep school teacher had led the unstable, sadistic lover to kidnap the girl; Claudia was safe again. And if it hadn't been for Burley and Shepard's figuring out that Mrs. Callum was having an affair, and Decker's reckless speeding off into the night to hunt down the adulteress before she hit the road, Claudia might be dead.

But she wasn't, and as always after a case in which he returned a child safely to his or her parents, Gibbs couldn't stand the thought of going home.

"Gibbs."

He turned slightly, tearing his eyes away from Ensign Callum and his daughter, and tilted his head at Jenny. She leaned against the doorway opposite him, propping her leg up at an angle behind her.

"Decker is escorting Mrs. Callum to booking," Jenny informed him in a low voice. "Burley's got the math teacher down in interrogation. He cried lawyer. And he's babbling to himself."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Jenny turned her head and parted her lips, watching the diminished family reuniting. She took a deep breath and looked down at her hands, pulling at her sleeves to cover her palms.

"Must be tough," Jenny murmured. "She finds out her mom's cheating, then gets kidnapped by the boyfriend." Jenny shook her head a few inches to the left and to the right and met Gibbs' eyes again. "It's not how sixteen is supposed to happen."

He didn't say anything right away.

"She's gonna make it to seventeen," he said. It was meant to be optimistic, but there was so much pain in her blue eyes that she couldn't find a lick of light in the words.

"No one's slept in over twenty-four hours," she said softly.

"What time is it?" Gibbs asked. Jenny checked her watch.

"Nine o'clock."

"Friday night?" he asked, and there was a touch of disbelief. She just nodded. She leaned forward a little, crossing her arms across her stomach and chewing the inside of her cheek. A strand of her hair fell across her eyes. He pushed it back without thinking and her eyes darted from his hand back to his face.

"Are you alright, Jethro?" she asked earnestly, in a low, soothing tone.

He reached up and rubbed the back of his stiff neck, scowling, his brows furrowing.

"Tell the team they can go," he said roughly. "Miller, too, she's good."

She reached out and touched his hand, grasping his fingers gently in hers. She forgot her conflict and uncertainty towards him for a moment; she could sense there was some terrible storm hurting him behind his stoic eyes.

"Agent Gibbs—"

"Hey, Boss—"

Ensign Callum broke in, and Burley came up on the other side, interrupting, both men pausing to wait for an answer, and both men no doubt looking with either interest or disapproval—depending on which man you asked—at Jenny's affectionate gesture.

She dropped his hand like it had burned her and he straightened up. He pointed Jenny to Ensign Callum, and turned to Burley to discuss whatever the agent needed. Jenny licked her lips and approached the family, a smile appearing on her lips.

"Is there something you need, Ensign?" she asked respectfully, earnest, taking a deep breath.

"Yes," he began in a firm, gravelly voice, hugging Claudia tightly to his side. "It's about my wife…"

He began speaking in a clipped, authoritative tone, and Jenny slipped into agent mode, filing Gibbs' pain away in the back of her mind, and steeling herself to stay away at least until midnight—steeling herself to get through this adultery ridden case.

* * *

Saturday afternoon Jenny sat at her kitchen table with case reports spread out in front of her and a third mug of piping hot coffee curled in her left hand. Her feet were crossed lightly at the ankles and she munched on a pop tart as she read through the witness statements from one of their open cases. Finally caught up on lost sleep after getting home at two in the morning, she was bored and restless.

She had known this weekend was going to be nothing like the last; his wife was home, there was no excuse for him to disappear for a couple days, and things were oddly cool between them, anyway. It didn't change the fact that wordy case files were a dismal prospect compared to the previous weekend's languid fooling around with her lover.

Jenny stared at the meaningless words she was attempting to read and intently wondered what the hell Gibbs did when he was at home with Her. She had it on good authority—to put it sarcastically—that it wasn't marital _bliss_.

It had never quite bothered her so much that he still went home. She had compartmentalized _Gibbs_ as _work_ and _Jethro_ as _night time_ and then whatever he did with whatever other time he had, she didn't care and she didn't want to know.

Now it was bothering her.

It had been bothering her all week.

She'd had him all to herself last weekend. He had stayed through the _night. _She told him things about her past, and she never talked about the Colonel. She vaguely resented him for somehow making her feel at ease enough to share, and she bitterly resented his wife for technically possessing him. Didn't that oblivious _bitch_ realize he wasn't _happy_ with her?

Jenny pushed a file away and leaned back, frowning as she finished the rest of her pop tart. She blew air out of her lips and reached up to brush hair off of her forehead, shifting her legs. She silently tried to force herself to accept that Diane was not a bitch, but it wasn't working. She switched to silently forcing herself to accept that she was in too deep with Jethro and she needed to break it off before she lost complete control of the situation.

That wasn't working either; she stalwartly refused to believe she could ever have been naïve as to lose control of this situation.

This situation was just a little sexual flirtation indulged in to relieve job stress—and in his case, home stress.

It wasn't as if she was expecting him to take the ring off Diane's finger and put it on _hers_.

Alone in her kitchen, Jenny burst out laughing, mirth born of anxiety and disbelief.

She had career goals that Gibbs didn't fit into. She balked at the very thought of marriage.

The problem was, she didn't balk at the thought of _him_.

She leaned forward and put her elbows on the table, holding her neck in her hands. She picked up her mug and took a long drink, batting not an eyelid at the strong bitterness of the brew. She'd never taken her coffee black until she'd involved herself with Jethro.

She'd never drank bourbon, either, and this coffee could use some.

She was afraid of how she was feeling.

She didn't like that she wanted him so badly, that she was bored without him around, that she was jealous and therefore feeling aggressive and shrewish. She didn't like that she was mentally trying to justify her actions by thinking of ways to cast Diane Gibbs in an unfavorable light.

Jenny didn't _like_ that the fast-paced, tense case they'd just finished had been put into motion by adultery, and that an innocent girl had been so irrevocably harmed by it.

The worst part of it was, when she thought about the wrongdoing she was participating in, she thought—fleetingly, before she squashed the thought—'_at least they don't have kids'._

Yes; at least she wasn't stealing someone's _Daddy_.

Her phone rang and she picked it up, almost ludicrously pleased to distract herself from her current bramble of thoughts.

"Hello?" she answered, albeit rather tersely.

"Hey, Jenny, you're home."

She leaned back and relaxed.

"Hey, Rick," she greeted, smiling lazily as she recognized the handsome cop's smooth voice. "You're surprised I'm at my own house?"

"I'm surprised Gibbs doesn't make everyone work weekends and holidays," Colter retorted good-naturedly.

She smiled, ignored his comment, and tilted her head to cradle the phone on her shoulder as she reached for her coffee.

"What can I do you for, Colter?" she asked lightly.

"Dinner," he said confidently. "Dessert, if you want."

"Hmm, drinks too?" she flirted, putting her coffee down and examining her nails.

"Hell, I could use one," he replied. "Where you been, Jenny?"

"Meaning?"

"You dropped off my radar since your case in Maryland. What happened?"

"Gibbs _happened_," she answered honestly, dryly. Colter snorted; she knew he'd interpret it in a work-related way, and that's why she'd said it. It was truthful from many different angles.

"Well, it's good to hear you've got a weekend off," he said eagerly. "Wanna meet in Georgetown, say, eight o'clock?"

"Getting old, Rick?"

He laughed.

"Okay, nine—thirty," he amended, and she nodded, though he couldn't see it. She started to agree, and then made a noise of discontent.

"You know what, make it Capitol Hill," she suggested, suddenly struck with the desire to get out of Georgetown—maybe in half a mind to make it more convenient to go home with him when he inevitably asked. "18th Amendment. It's on Pennsylvania Avenue."

"Sounds good," Colter agreed warmly, obviously satisfied. "Any idea what you'll be wearing?" he asked suggestively.

She smirked.

"That's for me to know, and you to take off."

* * *

Gibbs wiped sweat off his forehead and kicked off his mucked up shoes as he came in from repairing the air conditioning. It was acting bizarre and kept either shutting off entirely or trying to freeze Diane out of the house every other night. He rubbed his shoulder with a scowl, his muscles stuff, and set his toolbox on the floor by the front door.

"Hey," he said, when he found her in the kitchen washing dishes. "It's fixed."

"I'm not going to wake up with blue toes anymore?" Diane asked hopefully, turning to look at him.

"Nah, you shouldn't," he answered, opening the refrigerator and searching in vain for a Corona. He shut the door dubiously and glared over his shoulder at the back of Diane's head, reminding himself to be nice to her before he asked: "Where's the beer?"

"Well, Leroy," she began sweetly, "I haven't seen you all week. I assumed you ran off with the circus," she turned and smiled at him coolly, "so I didn't buy you any more _beer_."

He glared at her again.

"The _circus_, Diane?" he scowled. "Why the damn circus?"

"Because you're a clown."

He immediately decided not to walk into whatever freakish trap _that_ was. He didn't know if she was calling him ridiculous or stupid or both, but he wasn't about to provoke her into unleashing everything on her mind right now. She was right when she asserted that they hadn't seen each other all week; their schedules just hadn't meshed.

"Where were you all weekend?" Diane asked abruptly.

"What?" he asked sharply.

"This past weekend, when I was in Baltimore," she said icily. "Where were you? I called several times."

"Work," he answered curtly.

"You were literally at work all weekend? Overnight?" she pressed.

"I was working, Diane," he snapped. "Until I picked you up Sunday morning."

"You sure about that?"

"Why didn't we have this fight Sunday?" Gibbs growled, throwing out his hands in annoyance. "You're gonna wait to bring up your paranoia 'til seven days later?"

She shook her head and made an irritated noise, and he reined in his annoyance some. He shouldn't accuse her of being paranoid; it felt wrong. He shouldn't push his luck here. Diane finished washing dishes and turned off the sink, quietly drying her rubber gloves and removing them. She took her hair out of its ponytail and ran her hands through it, turning to face him.

"You know, you work a lot," she snapped, narrowing her eyes. "A hell of a lot more even than when you were hunting Boone," she observed.

He looked at her stonily, without saying anything. She chewed on her cheek with sharp eyes and then shook her head. She let her hand fall to her leg and it hit her thigh with an irritated smack.

"My conference went well," she said. "I had a good week at work," she threw out poisonously. "Thanks for asking."

He tilted his head a little mockingly.

"Leroy," she began, and her voice broke unexpectedly. She reached up to touch her mouth and then let her arm fall again, propping her hand on her hip. "Leroy, I used to be _happy_."

He gave her a stunned look, like she'd thrown something at him and he'd been too slow to catch it before it hit him head on.

"Why can't _you_ make me _happy_?" she demanded of him.

"Diane," he said, exasperated. "It's not my job to make you happy."

She looked like she'd been slapped.

"I—" she began. "No, it's not, is it?" she asked. Her eyes darkened fiercely. "But it's _not_ your job to make me unhappy," she said, raising her voice. "And lately, you make me so unhappy, it makes me _sick_," she spat at him. She lifted her hand and touched her chest, holding her fist close.

He frowned, his stomach sinking. He walked towards her narrowed, his eyes softly, perceptively, and then he cautiously reached out and took her hand, grasping it in his.

"Diane," he said gently. "Somethin' happen to Rusty?" he asked, looking at her intently.

She gasped hoarsely, and tilted her head up to look at him.

"How-?" she asked.

"It's your _thing_," he said. "Your thing you act out over."

She moved closer and put her forehead on his chest, and then hesitantly slipped her arm around his waist and her hand into his back pocket.

"He's had pneumonia," she said shakily. "He's had pneumonia, and it's not even autumn yet."

Even though he was notoriously bad at dealing with emotions, and he knew he had a habit of coming off as uncaring and cold when he just didn't understand how to relate or express, Gibbs did his best to be sensitive to her.

"How bad?"

"They sent him home, Leroy," she said in a hollow tone.

"That's good," he said, tilting his head. He lifted her head up to meet his eyes and pushed her hair back.

She just shook her head flatly.

"No," she said. "It means they can't do much more," she informed him. "He's on his own."

Gibbs set his jaw and looked at her blankly, his brow furrowing. He came up with nothing to say. He always seemed to be wrong with Diane, and now, he suspected it would be even worse.

"His kids are going to watch him die," Diane muttered angrily, bowing her head again.

"You need to go back to Seattle?" Gibbs asked.

"Trying to get rid of me?" she fired back surprisingly quickly. She backed off before he could retort, though, and her face turned pale. She gripped his jeans in her hands. "I'm sorry," she apologized hoarsely. "I can't go back and watch him die."

Gibbs nodded. He stroked her knuckles lightly.

She reached up and pressed her wrist to her lips, breathing in shakily again.

"I don't know how to help Amanda," she said, shrugging helplessly. "She's going crazy over losing him, and he's not gone yet."

"You can't," Gibbs advised curtly.

Diane looked at him with wet eyes.

"You can't help her," he said gruffly. "You don't understand it. Don't try," he said, probably too roughly and bluntly.

"But you do," Diane said earnestly.

He stepped back from her, and she grabbed his shirt, holding on tight.

"Leroy," she pleaded. "Will you talk to Amanda? Just help her a _little_?"

He felt like bolting from the room and running until he was safe somewhere no one would bring up Shannon or Kelly—Jenny's doorstep. Jenny's house, where they didn't exist, and he could try to forget them and all the pain losing them had unleashed.

"No," he growled.

"You've been through it!" Diane burst out angrily. "Don't you understand, Leroy, you could show her some comfort!"

"No," he barked, and then gave her an incredulous look. "_Comfort_? How?" he scoffed.

"When you put it that way," Diane pounced nastily. "I'm not just acting out because of Rusty—our marriage is a mess! It's miserable! And it's because of _her_! _You_ don't know how the hell to help because you've _never_ gotten over Shannon's death."

He had never so strongly felt the urge to strike a woman as he did when Diane said Shannon's name with such animosity. He kept his head on his shoulders and held back, but the physical strength it took to keep his hands to himself took all of his focus, and he couldn't spare a drop of restraint for his verbal reaction.

"_There is no comfort_!" he shouted, at a volume he usually reserved for suspects who ran off or terrorists who wouldn't give him information.

She looked at him with wide, shocked eyes and swallowed, taking a step back. He turned and shoved his fist into the countertop, wincing at both the pain in his shoulders and back and the throbbing ache that shot through his arm.

"You have to get through it, Leroy!" she yelled desperately, when she got her bearings again. "You have to _grieve_!"

"What do you think I'm doing?" he bellowed, turning towards her with his eyes bare and raw. "There's _no getting through it,"_ he barked viciously, mocking her words. "It's not a broken leg, Diane."

"It's the same process," she tried to reason.

"She was murdered—_she was taken away from me_!"

"That isn't my _fault_, you son of a _bitch_!" she all but screamed at him, tears spilling out of her eyes from sheer frustration.

Diane hadn't heard talk about Shannon so much since he'd dully answered her questions on the day she'd found out about his first marriage. This wasn't healthy, but she was getting so much more from him in this moment than she ever had.

The silence that fell in the kitchen after their harsh exchange was deafening, and left them wondering if any passing stranger on the street had heard their screaming match. He looked away from her.

"Stop trying to fix it," he said harshly, shoving himself stiffly away from the counter and storming off.

She stood in the tense silence left, listening, expecting to hear him retreat to the basement—but she heard a door slam instead, and her brow furrowed when she realized he'd gone into their bedroom.

As she stood in the kitchen, emotionally drained and hurting, she almost laughed aloud at the notion that she had been about to accuse him—again—of cheating when he'd asked her about Rusty. He couldn't even have a relationship with her without devoting half of his heart to Shannon—there was no way Leroy had it in him to carry on with three women at once.

Diane wiped her eyes, regulated her breathing, and slowly followed him into their bedroom, calm determination written on her face. He was sitting on his side of the bed with his head cradled in his palms. She bit her lip, took another deep breath, and shut the door behind her quietly. She approached him cautiously and stood in front of him, touching his wrists. She did not pull his hands away from his face.

"Leroy," she murmured soothingly.

He was still, and then he moved his hands and reached for her hips, squeezing lightly in some sort of Gibbs-ish apology. He pressed his head into her stomach.

"What can I do, Leroy?" she asked.

He shook his head.

These were the moments when he needed Diane. This was the reason why he was always careful not to push her so far she'd finally leave him, because she knew about this tragedy he carried, and he couldn't stand the thought of letting someone else in on that secret, but sometimes he needed to be touched by someone who _knew_.

"Is your back hurting?" Diane asked breezily, reaching over his shoulder to see if his muscles were knotted from working in cramped conditions on the air conditioning all afternoon.

"Yeah," he answered gruffly.

"Lay down," she ordered.

He shifted, and stretched out on his stomach on their bed, resting his chin on his arms. He took his shirt off and used it as an extra pillow, his eyes lingering on the lamp on the bedside table.

"I'll work out the kinks," Diane said mildly. She settled herself lightly on the backs of his thighs, straddling him, and leaned forward, starting with a slow, firm massage on his shoulders and the back of his neck, kneading and soothing his tense muscles.

Gibbs closed his eyes, groaning tiredly in appreciation of her physical therapist honed skills. He let her expert touch heal his back and put him into a feel-good, drowsy haze, where he was lured into pretending she was a different redhead.

Diane massaged his back until his breathing evened out to soft snoring, and then she laid next to him on her side, curled up, and slept with her husband for what seemed like the first time in months.

* * *

Jenny threw her head back against the headboard and wrapped her arm around the bedpost behind her, trying to catch her breath. She reached out and plunged her hand into Rick's hair, gripping tightly, her leg stretched out over his shoulder and down his back, heel tapping against his tailbone.

"Oh, _yes_," she shrieked, holding that bedpost tightly. "Oh, _oh yes_!" She bit her lip and shuddered, relaxing her tight grasp on his hair a little as she broke; he kissed his way up her abdomen and sternum, slipping his fingers inside her to keep her ready.

He grinned and reached up to pull her hand away from the bedpost.

He kissed her neck and pulled her from her sitting position onto her back, his hips rocking into hers at the perfect angle.

"Mmm," she moaned breathlessly. She shifted her knees and reached between them, removing his hand suggestively; she arched her hips up to him.

"Good?" he asked.

She kissed his jaw, grinning, and nodded back.

"See if you can bring it one more time," she challenged.

He grasped her hand and pressed it into the pillow over her head; he thrust into her and she vindictively thought, _this is just as good as Jethro_. She had him really worked up and he'd been patient while he got her off; she wasn't surprised or disappointed when he was losing his control after a mere five minutes.

He groaned, mumbling her name into her shoulder, his hand gripping her thigh tightly where he held her leg against his hip. She smiled; basking in the warm throb of her afterglow, content to relax while he had his fun. She touched his chest and pressed her lips to his, drawing him into a deep, probing tongue-kiss.

"Jesus," he groaned, his lips moving against hers. He grit his teeth and shook his head. He slowed his thrusts and she ran her nail down his chest, pushing back gently. She leaned forward, shifting her hips away at an angle, and put her lips next to his near.

"Pull out," she murmured, and he did, that almost-gone, tense, passion-sated look still glittering in his eyes; she finished him off over her stomach with a few dizzying jerks of her hand. He clutched her waist in his hands and shuddered, spent, and collapsed between her legs, his head resting on her breasts.

She closed her eyes and breathed out, pushing her hair back. She was safely on the pill, but the thought of having a man other than Jethro finish inside her irked her—ironically, it made her feel like she was cheating, as if that were even a remote possibility. She reached down and ran her hand through Rick's hair again, and he rolled off of her onto his back, breathing in deeply.

She sat up a little, shaking her hair off of her sweaty shoulders, holding it back in a bunch on top of her head. She was satisfied, but she didn't feel good; she didn't feel content and happy like she did after she slept with Jethro; she felt like running. She liked Rick; he was a nice guy—and the sex was obviously good. But she was using him, trying to distance herself from Jethro and find a way to get out of the clawed grasp of the emotions trying to snag her and lock her in an inescapable tower.

"Want a cigarette?" Rick asked, sitting up and taking a lighter and a pack off of his bedside table. She demurred, holding up a hand, and reached over to the bedside table, where she downed the rest of the wine they'd abandoned earlier. She picked up the remote and dangled it before him.

"Want to grab the last of Saturday Night Live?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow. It was understood that she was offering him time to rest up and get hard for round two. He grinned at her and snaked an arm around her thigh, hugging it loosely and affectionately.

"You're a hell of a woman, Shepard," he complimented.

She flicked on the TV, found the channel, and grinned smugly. Pushing Jethro and his stupid wife to the back of her mind, she reached over and cozied up to Rick, puckering her lips fetchingly.

"I'll take a drag," she said, changing her mind, and he held his cigarette up to her lips, and she let her head get fuzzy, and tuned into a post-coital re-run of an SNL episode hosted by Alec Baldwin.

* * *

He woke up in the dark with almost no muscle stiffness. He was still in his dirty, mud-splattered work clothes and he was groggy, which was rare—usually he didn't sleep that deeply. He lifted his head and looked around, blinking to alertness in seconds. Diane was fast asleep and breathing heavily right next to him; she looked cold without the covers around her.

Gibbs sat up and stretched, rubbing his jaw. He looked at the time; it was way past midnight and well into Sunday morning. He felt a pang of guilt for leaving Jenny hanging this past week. Things hadn't been good between them—but he shouldn't let himself think about that; he _should_ focus on the impending combustion of his marriage.

He twisted around and leaned over to kiss Diane's temple. She murmured and rolled onto her stomach, covering her eyes with her hand. He pulled the blankets over her and went into the bathroom; he took a quick, hot shower that did away with any lingering muscle aches, and went down to the basement still half-wet.

He poured a mason jar of bourbon and picked up his sander, wide-awake and focused on the boat. He leaned against it, both hands tightly grasping the sander, and looked without seeing at this frame he'd been working on since the end of his marriage with Stacy.

He'd burned the one he'd been building while Shannon and Kelly were alive.

This one was starting to lose its sanctity, its capacity for refuge; it was too infused with bitter fights with Diane and the reminder that this marriage was falling apart too because he was literally destroying it with his inability to connect and his—his infidelity.

He turned and threw the sander back into its bucket, and he shot down his pour of bourbon and replaced it with another. He'd probably end up burning this one, too. He doubted he'd ever make it through a whole boat.

Diane had been so good to him tonight, and he'd repaid her with the longing for another woman. It was something she was used to battling, so sure was she that she lived in Shannon's shadow—he couldn't help that he would always be searching for Shannon even if he knew, somewhere down deep, that he'd never touch her on this earth again.

It was sick to keep Diane living in the shadow of a woman she didn't even know she was competing with; it was something he had never meant to happen, but he couldn't have predicted what Jenny had become anymore than he could have predicted coming home from Desert Storm to nothing.

* * *

"And here I thought you wouldn't be rushing out, with no case tomorrow," Rick said, fresh out of the shower in a pair of clean boxers.

Jenny smiled and tucked her tangled hair behind her ear as she slipped her shoes on and adjusted the dress she'd worn to dinner. She shrugged as if to mildly apologize and glanced over at the closing credits of SNL; she and Rick had gone for round two during the notoriously unfunny last hour of the sketch show.

"I like sleeping in my bed," was the excuse she made—and it was true. She liked waking up safe in her own bed.

It wasn't her main reason for bailing on Rick, though.

"C'mon, Jen," he said, a little exasperated. "You can spend one night—doesn't mean you have to marry me," he coaxed.

She furrowed her brow, his use of Jethro's nickname sending a distasteful shock down her spin.

"I don't like being called that," she warned tensely. She slid on her other heel and looked over her shoulder at him, smiling lightly. "You accusing me of having commitment issues, Colter?" she asked, batting her lashes.

"Just wonderin' what you're looking for, Shepard," he said honestly, with a small shrug.

He sat down on the other side of his bed and cocked an eyebrow at her.

"I said casual was cool," she reminded him in a bit of a clipped tone.

He laughed.

"Yeah, casual," he said, smirking. "Usually when women say that they can't…well, I've never met one who can do it, like men can."

Jenny turned her back, pretending to adjust her shoes, a little hurt by his words. So, she was cold? She was masculine? It would have been wrong to lead him on, so she was unfeeling for successfully keeping it casual? She didn't think Rick meant any of that—but it bothered her. And if she could have been convinced to stay a moment ago, there was no chance of it now.

Rick didn't understand the woman she was—and the man who did was home with his wife.

She stood up and pushed her hair back again.

"What're _you_ looking for, Rick?" she asked, turning the question back on him. He stood up to walk her out, like any gentleman would, and he walked towards her slowly, thinking.

"Good woman," he decided, flashing his winning Hollywood grin. "Maybe some kids. Never thought about it too hard." She smiled at him wryly, and turned, leaving is bedroom and walking down the hall to the entrance of his apartment. She took her coat from the hook and he helped her slide it on. "And you, Jenny?" he asked, arching a brow, his hand on the doorknob.

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes.

"Me?" she asked, a soft purr in her voice. "I'm lookin' for a promotion," she said silkily, and he smirked again, opening his door for her.

"Guess you better get back to Gibbs," he said good-naturedly.

He kissed her cheek, said he'd call her about tentative plans they'd made Tuesday night, and let her out—and when the door shut behind her, she stood staring at her car keys; she knew he'd been referencing her boss because he figured that was a good explanation for why she worked so much, but she took his _get back to Gibbs_ suggestion in an entirely different manner.

* * *

It was too long past midnight when she got home and curled up in her empty, cold, King bed with the lights all off and the room filled with a heavy silence she never thought she'd despise so much.

She hadn't wanted to stay because she couldn't get Jethro out of her head, and she hadn't wanted to stay because she'd felt tense, stressed, and emotional since he'd left Sunday morning. She had never mentioned to him that her period was six days late, and when she got it Wednesday morning, even that didn't relieve the weight on her shoulders; it made her feel vulnerable. The chaos that had consumed her mind at the mere possibility of a pregnancy was too horrifying to bear.

The redhead lay on her back in bed, tangled messily in her own sheets, determined to sleep in the middle of the bed so it felt less empty. She had never felt alone in her own bed before. She stared at the ceiling, her eyes dry; she was tired and her muscles hurt.

It was when she felt like this that her subconscious took control of her dreams, and her nightmares took control of her slumber—and she didn't want to wake up screaming in Rick Colter's bed. The thought was appalling; she was revolted at the notion that he might see her that trembling and weak.

When Jethro had stayed the night last weekend, she hadn't ever felt so secure waking up in the middle of the night, startled from a bad dream, as she did when she found him snoring next to her.

She dreaded falling asleep; she didn't want to face the Colonel and her demons tonight.

She blinked at the ceiling, let her mind wander, tried to stay awake, smirked slightly at the times her memory touched on.

She fell asleep before she knew it, and it was when she woke up in the cold sweat of a graphic nightmare, alone, reaching out to grasp only empty space, did she realize something catastrophic had occurred in the blink of a sinful eye—she'd fallen in love with a married man.

* * *

References: Bill Clinton, NCIS Season 2 Episode "_Chained_" (Gibbs quips that he called to flirt), Batman (comics/movies), NCIS Season 2 Episode "_Enigma_" ("Do all Marines build boats?"), The Ten Commandments (The actual _laws,_ not the Charlton Heston film!), SNL, Bill Clinton's Don't Ask, Don't Tell Military Policy.

S/o to my room mate & my suit mate for use of their names!

*Note: the change in canon; Gibbs' slip-up about Shannon.

_As for the chapter-shit just got real, ya'll.  
Feedback much appreciated!  
-Alexandra _


	13. Lilith

_I can't be the only one who was wholly unprepared for the emotional (and literal) carnage of Shabbat Shalom? I mean-jesus. I hope this cheers you up? But really, poor Vance. as Gibbs would say, "There is no comfort". _

_A/N: Hey, you guys know how you thought Jenny was getting in to deep last chapter? WELL. Let's be real; that was just a test run. Don't get too cozy with your new redhead, Mr. Gibbs, because Jenny's getting nosy (hey, I can make rhymes)._

_"Rumor has it she ain't got your love anymore/Rumor has it I'm the one you're leaving her for." -Adele; "Rumor Has It". [Playlist]*_

* * *

_Chapter Twelve: Lilith**  
**_

Jenny arrived at work seven minutes later than usual on Tuesday morning and thus walked _right_ into the midst of the sort of crass guy talk she _usually_ prevented by being in the bullpen earlier than everyone except Gibbs. She was sipping her coffee and minding her own business when she vaguely tuned in and realized that Decker and Burley were having some sort of very serious discussion about—

"What is _wrong_ with the two of you?" she asked, lowering her cup from her lips and turning to face them.

She kicked her backpack behind her chair and perched on the edge of her desk, glaring at them lightly over the lid of her Styrofoam coffee cup.

Decker looked mildly abashed, but Burley just shrugged.

"You were really just comparing sex techniques in _the middle of the bullpen_?" Jenny tried to clarify, narrowing her eyes.

"Hang on," Decker said, snorting. "Hang on, no, not technically—"

"Oh, not _technically?"_ Jenny asked, smirking slowly to show she wasn't scandalized. "Then I _didn't_ just hear you suggest that it works every time if you flick—"

"Shepard, _stop_," broke in Burley, looking positively horrified that she was about to repeat their conversation.

She raised her brows and looked at him innocently.

"If I'm the one who has one, why can't I say it?" she asked pointedly. She shook her head a little and tilted her head, shooting a sly look at Decker. "And it does _not_ work every time," she added coolly, taking a refreshing sip of her coffee.

He blushed, and she resisted the urge to cackle. Men _blushing_ was on her list of funniest things that occurred _ever_.

"If you're not swapping trade secrets, what _are_ you talking about?"

"We're planning your murder," Burley offered brightly.

She gave him a tense look. They had never discussed what had happened between them, and their relationship was back to a shallow, cautious sort of banter-and-bitch stage.

"I'm not sure Gibbs would appreciate that," Jenny retorted, honestly referring to her abilities as an NCIS agent.

Burley, naturally, took it to the next level.

"No, but his wife might."

She said nothing. She narrowed her eyes sharply, looking intently at Burley until his proud look faded a little and he sat back, obviously tamed somewhat by her steely gaze. Decker cleared his throat and shattered the tense silence; he leaned back and put his hands behind his head.

"Stan was bitching about this woman he slept with who never faked it," Decker announced.

Burley glared at the other man.

"Kudos, Stan," Jenny said dryly, holding out her cup in a mocking toast.

"Oh, no, you've misunderstood me, Jenny," Decker said wickedly. "She never faked it, as in, if she wasn't going to," Decker paused, "uh, you know, then she just let him know he hadn't done the trick."

"Will, I'm a grown woman, we can use the word 'come'."

Decker blushed again. She grinned wickedly and then put her lips on her coffee, tilting her head and shooting an impish look at Stan.

"You'd rather a woman fake it than be honest with you?"

Burley shot a look at Decker.

"Should I answer that honestly, or how women _want_ us to answer it?" he drawled, smiling a little.

"Ah, Shepard's one of the team, just answer it," Decker answered, rolling his eyes. "You're not trying to woo _her_."

"It's not that I want her to fake it, I'm just tired of it being like a damn marathon every time she's havin' issues. It's tiring, it's like an obstacle course, 'do this, do that, avoid this'—I just want to fuck, I don't want a gold medal," Burley complained, rolling his eyes.

Jenny stared at him.

"I don't think you understand how frustrating it is to fall short of an orgasm," she said curtly. "You are actually incapable of understanding—both of you. All men."

"Well, it's probably just as frustrating as getting off too fast," Burley snapped back.

Jenny raised her cup to him again, after briefly considering it.

"Touché," she murmured, starting to drink. She stopped. She shook her head. "No, actually, I take it back—you still end up satisfied, and we still get screwed," she smirked, and did take a drink this time. "Screwed sans climax, that is."

"I can always tell when a woman's fakin' it," Decker piped up smugly.

Burley turned to look at him in annoyance. Jenny cocked her brow at him seriously, a no-nonsense look in her eyes. She pursed her lips.

"No, you can't," she retorted, shooting him down confidently.

Decker grinned at her.

"I knew you were fakin' it when you and Gibbs were undercover," he leered.

She rolled her eyes. She wasn't about to admit that most of that moaning and gasping in the alley _wasn't_ fake, even if he'd just proved her point.

"Irrelevant; you knew it was part of the job," she said. "You can't tell when we fake it. None of you can. It doesn't matter how many times I sleep with a man," Jenny declared bluntly, "He can't tell the difference between a real orgasm and a fake one."

Gibbs stormed into the bullpen in time to hear her little assertion and his only reaction was to slow slightly in his moody stomp to his desk. He slid his cup of coffee onto the surface and leaned over one of his drawers, opening it up.

"All I'm sayin' is it wouldn't kill Maggie—uh, Miller—dammit, _her_!—to fake it once in a while instead of berating me every damn time…" Burley trailed off and his face reddened; he hadn't meant to reveal Margaret's name, and he was obviously sorry for it.

"Don't sweat it, Steve," Jenny said soothingly. "We all knew you were talking about our friendly neighborhood lab cynic." Jenny smiled, and tapped the top of her coffee with her nail. "I'm sure Margaret will be overjoyed to hear she was such a star in today's morning banter."

Ever one to keep things on a lighter note, Decker leaned forward and winked at Jenny.

"Hey, Shepard, when's the last time you faked it?" he asked.

"Cut it out," Gibbs spoke up gruffly, shooting them all a nasty look—though it was clear he spoke up in defense of Jenny.

It was his mistake doing so, as she was harboring a lethal amount of misplaced confusion and animosity towards him, and so she took it upon herself to directly ignore him and answer Decker's probing question anyway.

She finished the rest of her coffee, chucked it in Gibbs' trashcan, and met his eyes brazenly when that action drew his attention.

She licked her lips and cocked an eyebrow ruthlessly.

"Last night," she admitted primly.

It was worth it immediately when Gibbs's narrowed and darkened and flashed with hard jealousy before he could school his features—Decker whistled, and Burley failed to stifle his amused laugh; naturally they both assumed she was insulting Gibbs.

"Grab your gear," Gibbs barked at all of them tightly.

He holstered his gun, his eyes still on Jenny aggressively.

He knew as well as she did that it wasn't him she'd been with last night.

* * *

"Shepard."

Jenny pushed a filing cabinet drawer shut with her knee and turned around. She tossed the file she'd retrieved onto her desk and looked at Gibbs sharply, waiting for him to go on. He narrowed his eyes and beckoned to her with his finger, throwing his second cup of coffee away and storming off towards the elevator.

She swallowed and tucked her hair behind her ears, waiting a few moments and then following after him purposefully.

Burley whistled mockingly.

"You getting a punishment or a reward, Jenny?" he asked rudely.

"I'll let you know after I tell him you ate a granola bar at the crime scene this morning," she answered smartly, smiling when Decker winked at her as she left the bullpen.

Gibbs held the elevator for her, and she stepped inside.

The doors slid closed, and she didn't waste any time.

"What is it, Gibbs?" she asked coolly. "Punishment, or reward?"

"You tell me," he snapped back, hitting the emergency stop and enveloping them in eerie dimness. "What the hell was that about?" he demanded.

"What?" she asked innocently, still staring at the doors as if they would open any second.

"This morning," he growled.

"Whatever do you mean, Jethro? Seemed like typical morning banter with two semi-sexist colleagues."

"You know what I mean," he said, lowering his voice. "_Last night_."

"Oh," she sighed, as if just realizing. She widened her eyes demurely. "_That_." She pursed her lips and clicked her tongue as if to soothe him.

"We weren't—"

"Together?" she finished for him. She turned and looked at him sharply. "You should be relieved it wasn't _you_ I had to fake it for," she said dryly, her eyes flashing.

"You're sleeping with other men?" Gibbs asked, the annoyance and jealousy in his voice brittle and impossible to miss.

"What's it to you?" she fired back.

"What's—" he broke off, his eyes blackening. "It's somethin', Jen, it's—"

"Cheating?" she interrupted him again. She turned to him, her face close to his, looking him dead in the eye. She raised her eyebrows aggressively. "Were you going to say _cheating_, Jethro?"

It was as if the air had been sucked out of the elevator. He stared at her silently, gritting his teeth together, and she waited, glaring at him, curious to see what he'd say. He came up short, and she swallowed hard.

"I can _fuck_ whomever I want to," she asserted quietly. "_You_ are the one who can't."

She licked her lips. She reached past him and flicked the elevator back on. He took her hand, and then flicked it back off.

"Who was it?" he asked. He narrowed his eyes. "That _cop_?" he growled, scoffing.

She smirked a little, something that didn't touch her eyes.

"Are you going to quote Rule Twelve at me?" she hissed. "Because Rick is no longer my co-worker. _You_ are."

"You're still messin' around with _that_ guy?" Gibbs asked disdainfully.

"Are you still sleeping with your _wife_?" Jenny asked harshly, finally getting the words out that she'd been quietly dying to say for weeks now. She shook his hand off and reached for the emergency stop switch, her hand shaking a little.

He looked furious for a moment, then guilty—then just empty, and raw, and he shook his head, his eyes on hers and his mouth inches away.

"No," he answered curtly.

She felt like she'd been punched in the gut. Her throat closed up; so she closed her mouth and jerked her eyes away from his, flipping the elevator back on. She suddenly felt horrible for sleeping with Rick, and she hated herself for thinking she owed Jethro any sort of fidelity.

She withdrew and faced forward again. Gibbs pressed the button for Miller's lab, and while he was leaning over, Jenny swiped rapidly beneath both her eyes, took a deep breath, and shook her head back.

"Rick is a good guy," she said tersely.

"His name is _Rick_," Gibbs growled distastefully.

"Like _Leroy Jethro_ is any better?" Jenny retorted, scoffing. She tossed her head, shaking her hair back in frustration over her shoulders. The elevator doors slid open and she bolted out, turning around to block his way at the last moment.

"I don't know what the rules are," she blurted out intensely. She pointed to herself. "I don't know…where I stand. I'm not a _toy_," the elevator started to close; he put his hand on it to hold it, and she put her hand on his chest. "You were at home all last week. How was I supposed to know that wasn't you ending this? I can't call. I don't have a right to you," she gripped his shirt a little. She lowered her voice, her lips parted while she tried to find words.

The elevator alarm went off; they'd been holding the door open too long. She stepped back.

"What are we doing down here?" she changed tune desperately.

"Lab results," Gibbs said gruffly. He pointed her towards Miller's lab, and she walked next to him, and when they found the lab empty, she turned around and continued.

"I wanted you," she snapped. "I had you…all to myself last weekend, and I _liked_ it," she paused, and bit her lip. "And I _hate_ that you have _Her_."

She reached up and rubbed her forehead tensely, and then chewed on her lip and looked off to the right.

"It's not fair," she complained hoarsely.

"What're you tryin' to say, Jen?" Gibbs asked, the bitterness gone from his voice; he just sounded tired, and a little protective, and more like he sounded when they were alone together.

"I can't tell you," she answered, looking back at him. "I can't make this worse than it is," her voice shook and she just swallowed down the tears before they could leap to her eyes, and she shook her head.

"Rick is a distraction," she said hollowly.

Gibbs moved closer and reached out to touch her neck, rubbing his thumb along her throat sensually. He raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah?" he breathed. "Sounds like he didn't cut it," Gibbs muttered. She reached up and touched his wrist. She let her lashes drift lazily, leaning closer and breathing in his scent. God, there was nothing like Gibbs' smell, even if she could never place what the mix was. Her heart sped up.

"I missed you, Jen," he admitted, pressing his lips to her jaw lightly. He touched her hip with his other hand and she leaned against him, tilting her head back a little. Miller's equipment whirled in the background, and Jenny shifted her weight, tucking her hand into his pants at the front, her thumb hooking around his belt buckle.

She lifted her head back and touched his cheek, burying her face in his neck for a minute and then touching her lips to his. She mumbled his name quietly against his mouth. She had no idea how she could have, even for a moment, convinced herself that Rick was as good as this.

"Come over tonight," she said huskily, her lips brushing his.

"Thought you were done, Jen," he said, shrugging honestly. She had been so cold to him last week, when she'd panicked about her feelings and tried to distance herself. She was still drowning in that panic, but she'd been miserable without him lurking around and coming and going.

She held tighter to his belt and shook her head, licking her lips.

"I'm selfish," she managed to say in a level tone. "I don't want to share."

He ran his hand through her hair, from the back of her neck over her shoulder, and behind them a loud banging and a shrill ringing interrupted, and Jenny moved back rapidly and looked over Gibbs' shoulder to see Margaret had returned, and she'd slammed her files down on her table to make her presence known.

"Margaret—" Jenny began.

"Don't," Miller snapped curtly. "I don't give a damn what the two of you are doing outside of the office," she griped firmly. "Fake or not, keep it _out of my lab_."

* * *

Diane would have been enjoying her one o'clock lunch break were it not for the phone conversation she was engaged in with her mother. Teresa Peterson had called right as Diane was leaning back in her office chair to enjoy her chicken Caesar salad fresh from the cafeteria, and she hadn't _shut up_ since.

"Mother, the last thing Amanda needs is me hanging around her house right now!" Diane insisted, stabbing pieces of grilled chicken with a plastic fork. "She's got three kids and a dying husband; she doesn't need a houseguest!"

"That dying husband is your _brother_, Diane, and you'd stay with me of course," Teresa continued matter-of-factly.

"Well, that's even less appealing," Diane muttered, and then went on before her mother could admonish her for it. "I was _just_ in Seattle. I had a good visit, and now I need to be here," she explained calmly.

"You need to be with your family," Teresa prodded earnestly. "You said yourself it was a relief to be out of that house—come spend as much time as you can with Rusty, and get yourself away from that _man_—"

"That _man_ my husband, Mom," Diane interrupted curtly. She set her fork down and sighed. "He's my husband, and I need to be home right now."

"Seattle is your home!"

"Seattle was home, yes, but I've lived in DC for ten years now. This is where my life is. I'll admit it was nice being away from Leroy, but it only made me realize that I can't run away from our problems," Diane paused. "Mom, you never let me quit when I was a kid, why do you want me to quit now?"

"He's not a good man, Diane," Teresa snapped. "We've been over this. You know, I don't remember you talking about him happily since you were _dating_."

"You have _no_ idea what our relationship is like," Diane snapped insecurely.

She _hadn't_ told her mother that Leroy avoided home as much as possible these days; she couldn't work on her marriage even if _he_ wanted to—which he didn't, and she didn't know if she even cared anymore.

"I know when my only daughter is unhappy," Teresa said earnestly. "You're so unhappy, Diane, and I hate it. I don't know why you're still giving that man chances."

"There is _so much_ good in him, Mom," Diane fired back sincerely. This defense of Leroy was half-hearted, where sometimes she was just going through the motions to deflect her family's criticism because she hated being seen as weak. "We just," Diane faltered, picking up her fork and picking at her food again. "We should have dated longer," she said, shrugging. She took a bite of some chicken. "We should have figured out that we handle things differently."

"That's an understatement," growled Teresa. "That wouldn't have solved anything. You can't stay trapped in this marriage, Diane. It's not working. You want kids now; he still doesn't."

"I can't blame him for that," Diane said, blowing her mother off.

"You can blame him for lying to you," Teresa snapped. "Dating him longer wouldn't have solved anything—he lied to you about his _family_."

"Leave it alone," snapped Diane right back. "I—it's a lie I can almost understand sometimes—it's not something you bring up in conversation—"

"Diane. Do not justify it for him. It wasn't just a lie; he _denied_ their _existence_. He wanted to live as if he'd never had a little girl. There's something seriously _wrong_ with that."

"Can you _imagine_ losing a child, Mom?" Diane asked softly. "I've seen the pain in his eyes when he thinks of it. And that's just when he thinks of it—that's not including the pain that's there every single day!"

"I don't doubt that it's something he will never be able to get over," Teresa said, lowering her voice. "But what about _your_ pain, honey? He makes you angry, makes you cry, makes you question your independence and yourself," Teresa slammed something down on her side of the line, and Diane was busy pointedly eating lettuce and trying to ignore her sage mother. "I can't stand him. I hate him, Diane."

"Yes, Mom, I know. Leroy knows, too. You're so generous in your hatred," Diane drawled, her voice thick with irritation. "You're not helping in the least."

"What am I supposed to say to you?"

"I didn't ask for your help," said Diane, swallowing a mouthful. "You called me. You started this."

Diane leaned forward and picked up her water bottle, unscrewing the top and taking a drink.

"Look," she mumbled. "I can't leave him. He's made me angry enough to hit him, and I'm still moping around. Thus I conclude that I love him, and he's still worth it."

"That's terrible reasoning, darling," Teresa pleaded.

"You don't know him. He needs someone. He is…he's so…" Diane trailed off. She winced at the thought of Leroy, the thought of him overhearing this and hating her for talking about him like he was delicate. "There's a lot of darkness in him," she said curtly. "I can't abandon this. I'm staying in DC."

Teresa gave an annoyed, frustrated laugh.

"I never thought you'd be the girl who goes after the tortured soul in need of fixing, Diane," she said dejectedly. "You can't fix him."

"I can fix us," Diane said bluntly, with an air of finality. "Mom, I'd like to enjoy the rest of my lunch in peace," she added.

"I _hate_ that he calls you Annie," Teresa blurted out, her last word, as if trying to yank her daughter back to her practical senses.

Diane smiled sadly.

"Mom," she said softly. "He never calls me Annie anymore," she admitted a little shakily.

"Goodbye, Diane," Teresa said warily, and Diane hung up with a quick murmured goodbye and leaned back in her chair with her salad. She propped her feet up on her desk and stabbed some more lettuce onto her fork.

Her eyes drifted to the photo on her desk, with the pretty silver frame that Dr. Mallard had given her on her wedding day. She stared at the picture inside, quietly munching on the rest of her salad. She tilted her head. Today, she felt optimistic.

In the picture, Leroy was removing her garter. He had his hand on her knee, and her foot on his thigh, and they were smiling at each other. She nibbled on her fork thoughtfully and narrowed her eyes—she swore there was a time when they were happy.

It was getting harder and harder for her to remember it, and there was always a chance that this photograph was lying.

Diane shook her head and tried to think of the patient who'd graduated from her care this morning, walking again, and so proud of his progress.

In the back of her mind, she wondered if Leroy would again work late tonight.

* * *

Jenny licked her lips slowly and closed her eyes, pressing her forehead firmly against his neck. She clasped his shoulders in her hands and tried to take a deep breath; her breath caught in her throat and she furrowed her brow, biting her lip. He moved his hand a little too roughly, she whimpered; he paused.

"Don't stop," she muttered seriously, giving a slight shake of her head.

Jethro started moving his hand again, and tangled his other into her hair, tilting her head away from his neck and leaning forward to kiss hers. She gripped his shoulders tighter and leaned into him, squeezing her thighs on either side of his. He groaned.

"Mmm," she murmured breathlessly. "Have I mentioned," she began, swallowing, and then catching her breath. "_Mmm_, have I mentioned how nice it is that I don't have to do this myself?"

"Jesus, Jen," he mumbled, as if he were exasperated.

She grinned, and brushed her lips against his shoulder. She lifted her mouth to his ear.

"Losing your control, Jethro?" she asked.

She straightened up and lifted one hand to grab the bedpost behind him, giving him a distracting view of her breasts. She rocked her hips and met his eyes; his hand stopped moving again.

"Tease," he growled huskily.

She bit her lip and tilted her head to the side, slowing her movements. He grabbed her hips and anchored her to him tightly, and then slid his hands over the tops of her thighs. Her hand slipped on her bedpost; she parted her lips and gasped.

His muscles clenched like he was about to flip her onto her back.

"No, no," she protested weakly. "No, don't move," she moaned. She closed her eyes and leaned forward a little, as if concentrating. She let her hand slip down his shoulder, to her stomach, and then below her navel.

He clenched his jaw and watched her touch herself, feeling a prideful need to knock her hand away and do it for her, but too mesmerized to actually do it. It was so hot to watch.

She noticed his look, and she smirked.

"Jethro," she purred quietly. "When I first started working for you, I came home so frustrated and tense," she licked her bottom lip again and arched her back a little. "I was so attracted to you. It was infuriating," she paused again, trying to hold on just a minute longer. "You know what I used to do?"

"_What_?" he groaned desperately, his fingertips digging tightly into her thighs.

He leaned his head back against her headboard tensely and moved his hands, pulling at her hips a little.

"I—" she gasped mid-sentence and swallowed; she tightened her grasp on her bedpost again and leaned forward, looking at him through her eyelashes. "I'd run a bath and think of you," she said huskily, "while I got myself off."

The look on his face was worth her drawing it out. She smirked again and squeezed her thighs again, puckering her lips wickedly. Her green eyes flickered wantonly.

"I never though I'd get myself off with you inside—"

"Shut up, Jen," he growled.

He reached up and slipped his hands into her hair near her ears, pulling her mouth down to his. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close to his muscular chest and she moaned into the kiss, his subtle movements sending her dizzily and slowly crashing over the edge she'd been clinging to for too long.

She straightened up and clung to his neck, her nails pricking his skin. Sweat dripped into her eyes and stung; she closed them and let it drown her, oblivious to what he was doing—she couldn't even swear or _scream_. Jenny pressed her forehead into his temple, clenched her stomach, and moaned quietly, satisfied. Her pulse raced.

"Oh, my god," she mumbled huskily, her voice shaking. "Holy hell," she murmured.

He held her hips on his tightly and thrust against her a few more times, his movements erratic, and he shuddered and threw his head back against the headboard in relief. She looked at him, her mouth and nose inches from his; his eyes were closed tightly. When he opened them, he looked at her intimately; the lust was still there.

"Damn, Jen," he groaned hoarsely.

She nodded, and leaned forward and kissed him. He slipped his hands from her hips to her shoulders and pushed her hair out of her face. She broke the kiss, breathed out shakily, and moved off of him. He held on to her leg right above the knee, and she stretched out next to him on the pillows, snuggling into the sheet.

She grinned smugly and kissed his bicep, sliding her fingers through her hair silkily.

"Mm, let's do it again," she suggested wryly.

He snorted gruffly and put his arm around her, pulling her into his side. He still had his head tilted back, staring at the ceiling as if stunned.

"Half an hour," he answered bluntly, closing his eyes languidly.

She whistled lightly.

"Feelin' your age?" she teased primly.

"Feelin' _yours_," he retorted. "You tryin' to kill me, Jen?"

She laughed under her breath, shifting and tangling her legs up in his messily.

"Wouldn't that be a scandal?" she retorted, cocking her eyebrow. She rested her hand on his thigh and started to stroke back and forth soothingly. "It'd be left to me to tell Her whom you do when you work late."

Jethro made a derisive noise in the back of his throat.

"She'd shoot you with your own gun," he answered balefully.

Jenny stretched, tilting her head back and forth to loosen the muscles in her neck. She half-tried to suppress a yawn and failed.

"Fatal attraction," Jenny quipped through the yawn, letting the conversation die before it got too weird or uncomfortable. She ran her hand over his abdomen and back down to his thigh, exploring his skin. His breathing was just evening out and his body was still warm.

She closed her eyes and relaxed, comfortable in the sheets curled up next to him. She refused to look at the clock; she dreaded falling asleep because she knew he'd wake her up in the middle of the night sneaking home—but the faster she fell asleep, the faster that moment was over.

She was starting to hate that moment.

"Jen," he said, turning his head and mumbling into her hair.

"Yeah?" she asked, opening her eyes and tilting her head back. She looked up at him expectantly, this time successfully preventing another yawn.

"You ever faked it with me?" He asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at her.

She glared at him and pursed her lips, rolling her eyes a little.

"No," she answered.

He gave her an infuriatingly arrogant smirk, and she arched a brow.

"You sure that wasn't a fake answer, Jethro?" she asked coolly.

He didn't miss a beat.

"Nah, it was the truth," he answered.

"What makes you so sure?" she demanded.

"You have a tell."

Her lips parted in surprise and she leaned up a little, cutting her eyes at him intently.

"Any chance of you telling me what it is?" she asked dryly.

"Nope," he drawled.

She pinched his ribs; he jumped and slapped her hand away. She laid back next to him, her leg still thrown between his, and put her arm behind her head, frowning a little.

"Figures," she muttered. "My father knew it, then," she said, almost to herself. It explained why he'd always been one step ahead of her, no matter what she tried to get away with—he'd call her out, she'd stutter and stumble over her story, and end up crying and confessing everything. He'd been so good at being a father, until everything had fallen apart.

Jenny stared at the ceiling and brooded, and so she was unprepared for Gibbs' next random, probing question.

"How old were you when your mom left?" he asked.

She made an irritated noise, somewhere between exasperated and frustrated, and frowned.

"Seven," she answered, and she couldn't explain why she did—without even prefacing it with a snarky comment or attempting to deflect it.

"So she was—"

"Twenty-two," Jenny interrupted curtly.

"She leave you with your Dad?"

"No," she responded sarcastically. "She left me with her _parents_. My father was deployed."

Gibbs made a low disgruntled noise and she looked away, glancing at the digital clock on her bedside table. It was relatively early, as their evenings went. Still early enough for both of them to feasibly still be at work.

"You seen her since?"

Jenny licked her lips quietly and blinked at the ceiling. She hadn't, but she figured silence was a good enough way to answer that. She didn't know why the hell he was so interested anyway. A flash of irritation whipped through her; he made her feel so vulnerable and breakable and she felt like she couldn't touch him—she was, for so many reasons, not allowed to _touch_ him.

"If you're feeling sympathetic, don't," she snapped. "It wasn't a loss. The woman resented me."

"Jen—"

"It's the truth," she said dully. She looked over at him, her eyes guarded. "You tryin' to figure me out, Gibbs?" she challenged.

"There something I need to figure out?" he asked vaguely.

She let out a breath of disbelief. She shook her head and sat up, looking at him in a steely way, her jaw muscles tense. She held the covers around her, and her hair fell over her shoulder in a tangled mass.

"You don't have _anything_ figured out, Jethro," she said intensely, lowering her voice. "You're a goddamn mess."

He drew up his knee and rested his arm on it, looking at her levelly, a very calm, expressive look in his blue eyes. It was a rare look, but she'd seen it before—it usually appeared right before he was about to bust a suspect lying, or find an answer, or just _get_ something.

"So are you," he said pointedly.

She clenched her teeth, feeling out of control for a moment. She hated that he could see that about her. She hated it because it was terrifying for someone to see what she kept hidden, but also because she so _badly_ needed someone who could see that and still care.

She tangled her fingers in the sheet she was holding around her.

"This mess," she said with quiet violence, and gestured to herself, "is your fault."

He leaned forward and looked at her intently, his eyes narrow and searching, as if they were reading her soul.

"No," he said huskily, shaking his head. "It's not all me."

"I will never stop blaming you," she breathed viciously.

He put his hand on her neck and pulled her onto him, sprawling her over his lap. He wrapped his arms around her completely and attacked her lips with his in a kiss that was so absurdly theatrical she fought the urge to laugh at him. She settled for holding onto his shoulders again.

Gibbs flipped them over and settled on top of her, holding his weight expertly so he wasn't too heavy. He trapped her legs between his knees and she shifted to get comfortable, arching her back, the sheets still tangled between them.

"It's only been fifteen minutes," she jibed softly.

"Found some motivation," he retorted gruffly. He drew his lips down her jaw to her collarbone and she closed her eyes, tilting her head back. She couldn't ever get enough of this.

"Jethro," she murmured huskily, her lips brushing his hear. She touched the back of his neck and ran her fingers into his hair possessively. "Stay," she said aggressively.

He stopped, and grunted.

"Jen," he said roughly. "I can't," he muttered half-heartedly.

She compressed her lips, swallowed hard, and blinked away the sting in her eyes; she disliked what she was about to do for the abstract reason that she was suddenly becoming that other woman she'd always demonized, but she didn't know what else to do. She wasn't the married one. His choices were his choices.

"Tell her you got a case in the middle of the night," Jenny said. "Jethro, _stay_," she pleaded, her voice shaking.

She didn't want to wake up alone from her nightmares anymore.

He lifted his head and met her eyes. It looked like she'd obliterated his defenses. He held her gaze steadily, and then he just nodded, and pressed his lips to hers again, nodding while he kissed her.

She kissed him back fiercely, with a vindictive, immoral sense of triumph.

* * *

Jenny shivered slightly as the autopsy doors swung open and a gust of cool air wafted out. Understandably, it was a few degrees chillier down here than in the rest of NCIS headquarters, but she still fervently disliked it. She instinctively rubbed her arms as she walked in, and smiled at Ducky when he looked curiously up from the body he was exploring.

"Is this Sergeant Wheldon?" Jenny asked, approaching slowly.

Ducky shook his head good-naturedly.

"No, no, this is Agent Pacci's body," the medical examiner answered matter-of-factly. "Your Sergeant Wheldon is taking a backseat to Pacci's case."

"Ooh, does Gibbs now?" Jenny asked, widening her eyes.

"Ah, well, since I've seen you first, you get to tell him," Ducky responded, his eyes twinkling. "Perhaps accompanying the news with a cup of coffee will soften the blow, my dear," he suggested.

Jenny scoffed.

"The day I bribe Gibbs into behaving nicely is the day pigs fly," she said.

She glanced at Ducky's autopsy and then backed up, leaning into the spotless metal slab behind her. She watched him work for a moment; he seemed to murmur quietly to himself even if he wasn't talking aloud. Jenny smiled; it was soothing to watch Doctor Mallard work. He was so comfortable and confident in his field.

"Do you need my report on the Locke case?" Ducky asked mildly.

"Oh, no," Jenny said, waving her hand. "I don't need anything, Ducky," she assured him. "This is more of a social visit," she smirked wryly. "The bullpen computers have a new operating system and Gibbs doesn't understand it. Decker's trying to help him but," Jenny snickered. "It's tense up there."

"Ah, so you're hiding from the bear," Ducky mused, looking up and grinning. "You're quite welcome here. I'd offer you some tea, but, alas," he pointed to the body's open gut. "I highly doubt it will be appetizing."

"I'll pass," Jenny laughed, holding up her hand in protest.

She bit her lower lip and watched Ducky a moment longer—watched _him_, not the body; she was over her initial autopsy-inspired queasiness, but she didn't exactly fancy staring into the wide open abdominal cavity of a dead guy.

"Perhaps it was misleading for me to say this visit is social," Jenny piped up casually. She inclined her head demurely. "What I should have said is that I'm here to gossip."

"I may be old, Jennifer, but I am certainly no gossip," Ducky teased lightly.

"We'll call it research, then," she said, the corners of her mouth twitching up.

Ducky smiled. He looked up and met her eyes through the plastic of the translucent mask that protected his face.

"How can I help?"

"It's about Gibbs," she said bluntly, bracing her arms behind her on the autopsy slab and tilting her head. "His first wife."

Ducky just nodded silently, and Jenny chose her words carefully before going on.

"You said her name was—"

"Stacy," Ducky supplied mildly. "She was an attorney."

"Stacy," repeated Jenny, lowering her lashes thoughtfully. She _knew_ Ducky had said the first wife's name was Stacy—it had been nagging her in the back of her mind since Gibbs had told her otherwise. "How long were they married?"

"Hmm," Ducky murmured, his brow furrowing. He removed an organ from the body and placed it on a scale. He wrote something down and then glanced up, thinking. "They were married a little over a year."

Jenny raised her brows.

"Yes," Ducky said, nodding. "I believe they were married in early 1992," he paused, and then nodded more certainly. "And they divorced in late 1993," he confirmed.

"Did you know her?" Jenny prodded.

"I did," Ducky answered. He didn't expand on that, and Jenny chose not to ask; she didn't need to know about the mysterious Stacy's character; what had been bugging her was the reason behind his divorce.

To put it bluntly, she wanted to know if he'd cheated before. She wanted to know…where she stood—at least, she was trying to find some sort of foothold.

"Ducky," she began hesitantly. "Why did they get divorced?"

He sighed and looked up, pausing in his ministrations and looking at her intently. He seemed to really think about answering, and then inclined his head, his eyes open and honest.

"That I don't know," he told her. "It is something that will always remain between Jethro and Stacy," he paused, and this time he was the one who hesitated. "She was a very sweet woman. And I do believe the divorce was a very painful one," he said. "But Gibbs never speaks of it."

Jenny nodded silently, chewing on the inside of her lip. She reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking over at the body freezers to her left. She narrowed her eyes, thinking. She had a gut feeling that his first marriage hadn't ended because of infidelity on his part—he just didn't seem like the type. What was going on now, between her and Jethro was…inexplicable, but it was out of character. Gibbs was too old-fashioned, too loyal, for cheating to be one of his past times. There was something else _there_.

"Jennifer," Ducky said softly, and when she looked back over to him with an eyebrow raised in answer, he was still staring at her honestly. "You won't find a better man than Jethro."

"Good men make mistakes," Jenny said. She lowered her lashes a little, eyeing Ducky uncertainly. She didn't know what rumors he heard—or what he knew at all. She didn't know how well he knew Gibbs' current wife.

Ducky looked at her in an intelligent, knowing way.

"So do good women," he offered sagely, pointedly. Even if he hadn't heard rumors, maybe Ducky just _knew_. "Mistakes are painful, but we learn from them. We gain from them."

Jenny held his gaze a moment longer. She smiled a little, and then nodded. On a whim, she walked around his table and kissed him chastely on the cheek, a warmer smile spreading across her lips. She didn't have to say anything; she felt comforted—and she couldn't even understand _why_.

She turned and headed out of autopsy—but something held her back, and as the doors swung open, she turned, just a little, her gut still bothering her about one thing:

"Ducky," she called. "You're _sure_ it was _Stacy_?" she asked gently. "Stacy, not Shannon?"

Ducky nodded absently, already absorbed back in his scientific work.

"Yes, it was short for Anastasia," he answered brightly. "I remember because that was also the name of the last Romanov princess…"

Jenny turned on her heel, letting Ducky's story fade into the background as she headed for the elevator.

She ignored the urge to snicker at the thought of a man named Leroy Jethro marrying an _Anastasia,_ and instead let her mind wander over the mystery that was him apparently _forgetting_ his first wife's unique name.

Stacy and Shannon weren't really all that similar.

* * *

"Hi, Charlene," Jenny greeted pleasantly, waving amicably at the Director's secretary. She pointed at his half-open door and arched an eyebrow. "Is he-?"

"He's ready for you," Charlene responded, nodding. She pressed a button on her intercom, informed Morrow that Jenny was on her way in, and waved goodbye; the secretary was just packing up to head home.

Jenny pushed open the Director's door and peeked in cautiously just in case he wasn't completely ready. He looked up at her and waved her in, smiling a little distractedly.

"Come in, Shepard," he said. He messed around with some files on his desk, shifting things. "Shut the door, please," he added, and decided on a file. He opened it and stood up, pushing his chair in. "Have a seat," he said warmly, gesturing at his conference table.

Jenny deftly swung a chair out from the table and took a seat, crossing her legs and leaning back, straight-shouldered and professional. Morrow laid his file out on the table and sat down across from her, rubbing his jaw tiredly.

"The Wheldon case?" he asked, eyes still on the file. "Gibbs will brief me tomorrow, but if you have anything…" he trailed off, prompting her.

"Ducky's only half finished with the autopsy," she answered, frowning a bit. "Pacci's senator took precedence, I believe." Morrow nodded, and so Jenny continued. "Burley questioned Sergeant Wheldon's parent's a few hours after we found the body; they had no idea he'd been missing for a week."

"Ah, well," Morrow said, scowling. "That makes Mrs. Wheldon look pretty damn bad," he muttered, finally looking up. He plucked a sheet of paper out of the file and slid it across the table towards Jenny. "Thought you might like to see this."

"What is it?" Jenny asked, placing two fingers on the edge. He gestured that she should read it, and she picked it up, scanning over it quickly. "The Strangers on a Train Report?" she asked, using the nickname they'd employed for the joint FBI case. "I screw something up?"

He laughed.

"That's a copy of Agent Fornell's report," Morrow said, pointing at the paper she held. "I wanted you to read his assessment of you."

Jenny looked at him blankly for a moment and then scrutinized the paper, this time reading more closely. The last paragraph of Tobias Fornell's summary of the case was dedicated to praise of her, and a few very flattering comments that she was suddenly fiercely proud everyone who looked at her file would be able to see.

She kept her features neutral, and handed the file back demurely.

"That was kind of him," she remarked graciously.

"It was _rare_ of him," Morrow corrected. "NCIS works with Fornell frequently, and he's about as forthcoming with praise as Gibbs. Who, by the way, has made a few offhand comments of his own commending you in his monthly reviews," Morrow barely gave her time to process that shocking fact before he breezed on. "Not to mention I've heard good things about you from both Dr. Miller in the lab and the boys down in the Cyber Unit. It seems you play well with others, Shepard."

She inclined her head.

"Well, sir, I did major in political science," she said wryly.

The Director smiled at her in amusement.

"I see it's a degree worth your money," he remarked, complimenting her. He shuffled some things around, sliding the good words from Fornell into her file and glancing through a few more things. He finally closed the file and looked over at her. "You've been with us about six months," he said neutrally.

"It will be seven in the middle of September," she said automatically, well aware of how long she'd been here.

"Gibbs turned in your mid-term evaluation last week," the Director informed her. She widened her eyes a little, and bit the inside of her lip. She'd had no idea Gibbs had been working on that. She held her breath for a moment. "He seems to think you're performing above average compared to other agents of your tenure."

Jenny failed at hiding a small smirk. She rested her hand on the conference table and flattened it, looking pleased. Morrow nodded at her, indicating it was perfectly acceptable for her to be proud of herself. He put his hand on her file.

"I asked you in to talk about a promotion," he said, getting right down to the meat of the conversation. "You joined this agency with an intent to operate in intelligence analysis and special ops, is that correct?" She nodded curtly, trying not to show too much excitement. "Is that still relevant?" Morrow asked.

"_Yes_," she answered fervently. "As rewarding as detective work can be, I think I'm more suited for political maneuvering and," she hesitated, "subterfuge."

"You're qualified in many areas, though you're green," Morrow remarked vaguely. "It's a delicate situation," he went on. "It isn't public knowledge that I knew your father so well, but it's still necessary for me to avoid looking as if I'm giving you special treatment for _any_ reason," the Director frowned, and glanced up at her, thinking his words over for a minute. "I'm sending Decker to Los Angeles around the New Year to aid in the conceptualization of a black ops division. He'll be working with a veteran agent to glean information domestically and overseas and use it to coordinate missions to strengthen US infrastructure and ensure security."

Morrow held Jenny's gaze for a moment, making sure she processed the information.

"You're fluent in French, if I remember?"

"_Oui_," Jenny answered, cocking an eyebrow.

"That may come in handy," Morrow said dryly. "How's your Russian?" he asked. Jenny tilted her head, wracking her brains for the minimal knowledge she had due to her father's proficiency in the vodka-ridden tongue. She waved her hand back and forth vaguely. "немного," she said. She wouldn't be able to get by unless she studied it.

Morrow seemed to make a mental note, and nodded anyway.

"In confidence, I can tell you that I am most likely going to offer you a position with Agent Decker in California," Morrow told her slowly. "That position would come with intent to send you overseas before the millennia, and with those sorts of experiences under your belt, well," he paused. "You could move through the ranks quickly."

Jenny swallowed.

"What is necessary on my part?" she asked.

"Continued exemplary performance," Morrow answered seriously. "It's crucial that you make no mistakes, or I won't be able to justify promoting a probationary agent so quickly. We generally hold probies at their original assignment for at _least_ eighteen months."

Jenny felt her muscles tense; her mouth felt like cotton. She was thrilled at the prospect—but something mitigated the excitement, and it was something that blindsided her; it, in fact, infuriated her. She heard Morrow basically confirm that she'd be promoted quicker than any probationary field agent ever had been, and the first thing that jumped to the back of her mind was—

_What about Jethro?_

And furiously, the ambitious part of her, the part of her that was bloodthirsty for revenge in the name of Jasper Shepard—the part of her that had been dominant for so long now and was suddenly forced to fight against the _woman_, the real Jenny Shepard—burst out—

_What _about_ him? He's a fling. A married nightmare. He isn't going to give you peace; he's as miserable as you are. _

Jenny swallowed hard, her head suddenly aching with the force of the conflict.

It seemed, though, that she stayed silent for too long; Morrow's interested was piqued.

"Shepard?" he asked, tilting his head. "You have some objection to the promotion?"

"No," she said firmly; quickly. "No, I am beyond appreciative of the opportunity," she assured him confidently. Her brow furrowed, and before she could stop herself, she continued: "I enjoy working for Agent Gibbs more than I realized."

Morrow laughed outright.

"I can tell you it's not often I hear _that_," he said honestly. "Nothing is set in stone yet," he warned. "If the time comes, it will be your choice. You're more than welcome to decline and remain on Agent Gibbs' team," Morrow informed her. "I'm sure he'd be glad to have you."

_You have no idea_, she thought.

She set her jaw, just trying to sort through all of her thoughts. She tilted her head, an intent look on her face, her lips slightly pursed. It was utterly petrifying to realize that, faced with such a decision; she suddenly didn't know _what her answer would be_. She shouldn't have any qualms—what was she going to do elsewise, wait for Gibbs to leave his wife, marry her, and live happily ever after?

That thought made her shudder, too.

"No decisions need be made today," Morrow said abruptly, sitting forward. He picked up her file and held it to his head as if saluting her. "You ought to be pleased with yourself, Jenny," he said sincerely. "Jasper would be proud."

She smiled tightly. She doubted her father would be proud; Jasper had never wanted her working for the government. One of thing reasons for their falling out—amongst obvious other things—was her decision to drop out of law school and set her sights on a federal agency.

"Thank you," she said half-heartedly, making sure to fake a smile. Morrow stood, and she stood as well, holding her hand out to shake his firmly. She pulled her hand back, gave him a nod, and started to leave. He called her back.

"Shepard, hold on," he said. "There's been a change of plans for Saturday evening."

She looked at him in confusion for a moment.

"My security detail for the White House event?" he prompted.

"Oh, that," Jenny said, snapping her fingers. "I'm not on the detail," she said.

"You are now," he corrected. "The Secret Service has gotten a little paranoid recently. They want as many agents coordinating with them as possible. You and Agent Burley are both on detail."

"Was Gibbs going to brief me?" Jenny asked, slightly annoyed.

"Tomorrow," Morrow answered. "I just jumped the gun. Wednesday you guys have a coordination team with the FBI and the Secret Service at the Pentagon."

Jenny nodded curtly, showing her understanding.

"My first White House event and I can't even wear an evening gown," she said, clicking her tongue.

Morrow smiled good-naturedly, and the familiar man who had known her father so well came out—the professional backed down a little, and offered a platonic compliment.

"I'm sure you'll do wonders for a skirt suit, Jenny."

* * *

Margaret Miller smirked as Stan placed a plate full of homemade shrimp scampi in front of her. She licked her lips and picked up her wineglass, arching an eyebrow at him as he sat down with his own plate across her kitchen bar. She toasted him, and held the glass to her lips.

"I have half a mind to reveal your culinary talent to the team," she teased wryly, taking a deep sip of the merlot.

Burley snorted and pointed a fork at her playfully.

"Do it and I'll get my fingerprints on every sliver of evidence we send to you," he threatened.

"You'd seem like less of a chauvinistic dick if they knew you could cook," Margaret remarked, abandoning her wine in favor of the meal.

"Maggie, I could bake cookies in a pink apron and Shepard would still hate me," Burley retorted, giving his scientist a knowing look. He knew good and well she'd been hinting at his rift with Jenny; no one else on the team really gave a damn what kind of personality Burley had as long as he did his job.

Margaret laughed, stabbing some shrimp with her fork. She waved it at him before taking a prim bite.

"Cookies in a pink apron," she repeated. "Right, I'd like to see that."

"Maybe I'll wear only the pink apron," Stan said wickedly.

"Is that meant to be enticing?" Margaret asked innocently. "I've never quite had a Martha Stewart fantasy."

"Augh, you had to _ruin_ it," Burley retorted, making a face. He relaxed and dug into the meal he cooked, satisfied. "Are you and Shepard still having a cat fight?" he snorted derisively.

Margaret waved her hand tensely. She meant to blow it off, but rolled her eyes and decided to blow off steam instead.

"I hate gossiping. I _hate_ it," she said curtly. "I shouldn't even mention this to you, but it irritates me to no end…" Margaret trailed off. "You know I caught them kissing in my lab earlier this week?"

"Shut _up_," Burley said automatically, dropping his fork. A gleeful sort of triumphant look spread over his features. "Anything else?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Margaret just shook her head, her mouth in a tight compressed line as she chewed, swallowing her mouthful before she continued.

"I like Jenny, I do," she said, shaking her head in consternation, "but it bothers me to see her acting so irresponsibly. I knew the rumors were true; I'm not an idiot—but to bring it to the work place? What does she think she's doing?" Margaret seemed to be talking to herself now. "He's going to hurt her, and she's smart enough to know she's being foolish—"

"Hey, Mags, slow down," Burley interrupted, arching a brow. "You're starting to sound like you care."

Margaret frowned at him.

"I do care, Stan," she said seriously. "I _like_ her. She sticks it to Gibbs."

"Stellar choice of words there, babe."

"You know what I mean."

Burley just shrugged.

"I just foresee her throwing a career away on some affair with that asshole."

"Gibbs isn't that bad," Burley piped up, defending his mentor. He shrugged and took a drink of his own wine. "He's just all work, no play."

"No, he's playing with fire," Margaret said shortly. She reached up and shoved her hair off of her forehead; she made a frustrated noise and picked up her wineglass. "It doesn't matter. I won't have to put up with him once I get the kinks worked out on this new job."

Burley frowned moodily.

"You really gonna take that?" he whined.

"I've always wanted to do research," she said, softening her tone. "Johns Hopkins doesn't hand out funded molecular research positions like candy, Stan, it's a once in a lifetime thing," she added.

"Yeah, I know," he muttered. He shrugged, and stabbed a little more violently at his food, his brow furrowing. He liked Margaret a lot more than he liked to let on, even though he joked about it sometimes. But Margaret was Ice Queen Margaret; when she said she didn't believe in love, she meant it. And it was Burley's fault for thinking she would change.

"You'll love my replacement," Margaret said conversationally. "Morrow gave me a lead on finding someone. She's fresh out of grad school, she's been working in a lab in Louisiana—she's _brilliant_," Margaret paused and smiled smugly. "She'll terrify Gibbs. He won't know what the hell to do with her."

"Why's that?"

"Oh, I'll let you find out," Margaret laughed. "Her name's Abby Sciuto."

"Sounds cute," Burley said flippantly. He flicked a piece of his food at Margaret playfully. "She'll be no you, Maggie."

Margaret just smiled sagely, trying to let him down easy.

"Maybe you'll like her even better, Stanley," she said, arching her brows.

Burley smirked, but there wasn't as much light behind the smirk. He dreaded Margaret leaving, and he was annoyed that she was so blasé and unaffected by the separation and their relationship as a whole. He picked up his wineglass moodily and was suddenly struck by a pang of empathy for _Shepard_ of all people—and maybe he thought it was worth it to try and understand her.

And offer her an apology.

* * *

Gibbs winced involuntarily as he messed with his tie. The burn afflicting his right palm was proving to be a more troublesome injury than he'd thought, not that he was going to admit to that. He attempted to force his hand to bend so he could finish the knot and pain shot up his arm; he swore under his breath.

"Here," Diane said brusquely, stepping in front of him and taking the tie in her hands. She'd been hovering outside the bedroom door for ten minutes now—probably waiting for him to ask for help—and her patience with his bullheadedness must be up. "This tie is terrible anyway," she remarked, sliding it off his neck and tossing it on the bedside table.

She went to the closet and picked a different one.

"Your mother gave me that tie," he said, pointing at the one Diane had discarded.

"Clearly she was attempting sabotage, Leroy, it's _hound's_-_tooth_."

"I know how to pick out a good tie," he protested gruffly.

"No, you don't," Diane retorted bluntly, looping the new one around his neck. "If you did, you wouldn't feel the need to keep getting married," she muttered, pinching her tongue between her teeth as she expertly tied his tie. "I like this one," she remarked, nodding approvingly.

She reached up to brush off his shoulders and adjust his collar; her hands ran over the back of his neck and he flinched away slightly, suddenly remembering—

"What happened?" she asked, pursing her lips. She rose on her tiptoes and leaned around, her fingers running over the rough scratches near the nape of his neck. "Where did these come from?"

He reached behind him with his good hand and brushed her hand away, touching the scratches absently. He shrugged.

"Got into it with a suspect," he said curtly.

She gave him a weird look, and he went into the bathroom to examine the tie she'd picked out. It was a solid blood red; simple and straightforward. Diane was still looking at him thoughtfully and he pointedly ignored that, silently cursing Jenny up and down for dragging her stupid sharp nails down his neck.

"Leroy," Diane asked mildly. "Where were you the other night?"

He turned off the bathroom light, satisfied with the tie, and left the bathroom, furrowing his brow at her.

"When?" he asked, even though he knew damn well what she was talking about.

_Don't ask, Diane, you don't want to know, and I can't lie to you. _

"Tuesday," Diane clarified sharply. "When you didn't come home at _all_."

He should have known he'd never get away with that. She followed him into the kitchen, where he gathered up his badge, gun, keys and other things. He shrugged and looked up and me her eyes.

"Caught a case after midnight," he answered brusquely.

"You were working," Diane said skeptically.

"That come as a shock?" he asked tightly.

He could tell by the look in her eye that he'd just sounded _mean_. She gave him a face that was so bluntly fed up with him he didn't dare say anything else. She seemed to get control of herself after a moment, though, and narrowed her eyes as he holstered his gun and then instinctively favored his injured hand. Diane reached out and took it in hers, flipping his knuckles into her palm and looking at the burn.

"Should you even be working with this?" she asked, professional concern coming out in her tone. "Your mobility is limited, it's obviously hurting you," she shook her head and frowned. "How are you supposed to respond quickly to a threat?"

He rolled his eyes.

"Ah, nothin's gonna happen," he said. "Security detail's just a precaution. I'm supervisory agent, anyway," he muttered.

"Right, you have to make sure Shepard doesn't screw you," Diane remembered callously. "Over," she added. "Screw you _over_," she corrected with sour sweetness. His wife stroked his burned palm gently, raised it to her lips, and kissed it tenderly. "What time will this thing be over?"

"'Round midnight," Gibbs answered reluctantly, still reeling a little from her Freudian—or intentional—slip of the tongue.

"Are you going to work after?" Diane asked edgily.

"No," he answered, placating her. "I'll be home."

"Good."

She gave him his hand back and leaned against the counter. He looked at her intently for a moment and then nodded; he looped his keys around his finger and leaned forward to press a kiss to her cheek.

"Oh, Leroy," she called as he was leaving. He stopped in the hallway. ""Don't plan on working Labor Day weekend away," she cautioned, appearing in the hall. She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. "Your team isn't available."

He glared at her.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"We're having a cookout. Your team's invited," she answered. "You're grilling."

"Diane," he growled. "Don't—"

"I've already invited them," she said, cutting him off. "Tobias as well, and a couple of my colleagues," she paused. "I'm giving you a week to psychologically prepare yourself to interact with people."

He stood in the hallway and stared at her in a mix of annoyance, disbelief, and disorientation; was Diane playing some kind of sick game of Clue—_Jenny-in-the-bedroom-with-my-husband—_or was this Karma come to kick his ass?

* * *

When she walked—her very professional, graceful, slightly dangerous strut—her heels clicked and then flashed up to reveal a splash of red on the soles of her black pumps. It was a shocking, bright, candy-apple sort of red that just so happened to match the smear of lipstick across her lips, and this was what Agent Gibbs was focusing on while technically running security for Director Tom Morrow.

She hadn't had much to say to him all night, but frankly he was content to look—because she looked _good_. Leave it to Jenny Shepard to turn a bland black-suit security dress code into something unbelievably Playboy.

"Burley's back," Decker muttered in Gibbs' ear.

Gibbs lifted his wrist to his mouth.

"Eyes on the Director?" he asked, scanning the room briefly.

"He's talking to Gore," Burley piped up. "Under the chandelier."

Gibbs turned in that direction and spotted Morrow engaged in conversation with Vice President Gore. He nodded to himself and lowered his hand, turning back around to look for Shepard. She was standing by a far wall; she seemed to be in conversation with one of the Secret Service agents.

She met his eyes, as if suddenly aware he was looking at her, and a hint of a smile touched her lips. Her teeth were particularly white in contrast with that shocking red lipstick, and he was quick to try and stamp out lustful fantasies by deliberately thinking of unappealing things like paperwork or Kuwait.

"You ever get the overwhelming urge to start a food fight?" Decker asked, strolling up to Gibbs with a bored look on his face. It was common knowledge that Decker found these events as Gibbs did.

Gibbs smirked and inclined his head.

"Depends," he said gruffly.

"Yeah? On what?" Decker asked.

"How many points each tight ass is," Gibbs answered.

Decker snorted, and then nodded towards the center of the room.

"Twenty points if you ruin her pantsuit," he mocked.

Shepard was glaring at them from across the room; Decker noticed and nudged Gibbs, pointing it out. He wiggled his fingers wickedly at the redhead and she rolled her eyes.

"That is so disrespectful," Jenny hissed at them, pretending to fix her hair.

Burley was sniggering in their ears.

"It's a hideous outfit, Shepard, she could take some tips from you," Decker said.

"_She's the First Lady_!" hissed Jenny, outraged.

Her attempts to chastise them out of their boyish insensitivity were futile; they were obviously going to amuse themselves however they could.

Gibbs kept his eyes on her across the room; she pursed her lips tensely and excused herself from conversation with the agent she'd been talking to. He grinned at her admiringly and said his goodbyes, and Gibbs felt a snap of jealousy; he narrowed his eyes.

Jenny stalked off towards the bar, black pumps flashing their enticing red at him with every step.

* * *

"Water," Jenny said balefully, shaking her head at the fine wine she was offered by the bartender. As much as she'd like something neat and stout right about now, there was absolutely no drinking on protection detail—and rightly so. The bartender gave her a sympathetic look and she stepped back, waiting for him to get her beverage.

She glanced down to examine her manicure and bumped into someone in her effort to stay out of the way.

"Excuse me," she said immediately, orienting herself and turning to face the woman she'd carelessly ran into. The brunette waved her hand with a good-natured smile and stepped a little out of Jenny's way.

"Don't worry about it," she said earnestly. "I was admiring your Louboutins," the young woman said, pointing at Jenny's pumps.

"Ah, thank you," Jenny said, smiling. "I take comfort in them, since I can't have an evening gown," she said wryly, eyeing the woman's burgundy gown covetously.

"Are you secret service?"

"No," Jenny answered without elaborating.

"I didn't think so. I know most of those guys—and they're _all_ guys," the woman said. "What do you recommend to calm nerves?" she asked, laughing a little. "This is my first swanky White House affair."

"Bourbon," Jenny answered, deadpan. She accepted her glass of water from the bartender and stepped out of the way some more, looking the woman over again. "You're an intern?" she asked, though it was more of an observation.

"Is it that obvious?" The brunette sighed and nodded. "I work in Panetta's office. Really close to Mr. President. It's the opportunity of a lifetime," she extended her hand. "I'm Monica Lewinsky."

Jenny shook Monica's hand.

"Jenny," she offered vaguely. It wasn't really protocol for her to go around giving out her information or what she was doing here, just in case—and Miss Lewinsky seemed too distracted and thrilled to really notice that Jenny was being evasive.

Lewinsky ordered her drink and Jenny turned her eyes on the people in the ballroom. The Director was still with the Vice President, though former President Carter and his wife had now joined them. Clinton and Mrs. Clinton were still with the Ambassadors from Israel and Jordan. Everything was fine; everything was boring.

"He's handsome, isn't he?"

Startled, Jenny looked at Monica. Her brow furrowed.

"Pardon?" she asked.

"President Clinton," Monica said. She took her drink from the bar and pointed at Jenny wryly. "I saw you looking," she teased, and then she was off—to do what, Jenny had no idea, but she rolled her eyes, Monica Lewinsky already fading into nothing but a vague memory, an inconsequential intern who probably thought Clinton was this generation's Kennedy.

The redhead peered after Monica curiously, touching the edge of the glass to her lips; Gibbs prowled up next to her like some sort of bored jungle cat, looking distastefully at all of the fancy goings-on. She arched an eyebrow and took a long drink of water, ignoring him; she felt his eyes lingering on her mouth as she swallowed.

"What's the lipstick called?" he drawled, looking away from her lips for a moment to appreciate the way her blazer fit over her crisp white top, and the way they both looked with her professional black skirt.

She didn't look at him right away.

"Your wife called me at home today, and you want to _flirt_?" she asked coolly, pursing her lips tensely.

"That's specific," he deadpanned, though it was more of a filler comment than an actual attempt at a joke. Not to mention he highly doubted that her lipstick had such a lengthy, scarily relevant name.

"It isn't funny, Jethro."

He wasn't laughing.

"She _called_ you?"

Jenny licked her lips and nodded matter-of-factly, still refusing to look at him.

"Just as I was tearing open this lipstick, actually," she said. "Noemi came bustling in, '_Senora, Senora, you have phone call, it is Senora Gibbs_," Jenny mimicked her housekeeper almost perfectly, her cheeks a little pale. "I thought she'd just made a mistake, but I answer the phone, and damned if it isn't Diane herself."

Gibbs grit his teeth uncomfortably. Diane had said she'd already invited the team, but it hadn't occurred to him that she had personally called Jenny. The thought was nerve-wracking to say the least, but screamed ulterior motive on Diane's part.

"What'd she want?" Gibbs asked gruffly, lowering his voice. He turned towards her slightly and she finally turned her head to meet his eyes, angling her body towards him.

"To invite me over for _a cook out_," Jenny answered in sarcastic disbelief. She tapped her nail against her water glass. "I _wish_ I was kidding," she added tightly. Gibbs frowned and rubbed his jaw, a muscle in his temple twitching slightly.

"She mentioned doing that," he muttered.

"You didn't think to _warn_ me?"

"Didn't know she was going to _call_ you, Jen," he growled. "Hell, I didn't think she'd _invite_ you."

Jenny seethed, and shook her head curtly, sipping her water again. Her eyes scanned the ballroom, and then she looked back at him sharply.

"Do you have _any_ idea what it's like to carry on a conversation with a woman whose husband you're sleeping with?" she hissed.

"No," he answered sardonically. "I know what it's like to go home to _her_ after _you_," he snapped.

Her eyes flashed, and briefly, she looked hurt by the comment—she didn't know what he meant by it, and it knocked her off balance. She swallowed and pressed the edge of her glass against her lower lip, lowering her eyes to stare at the lipstick print that smudged there. She shifted her weight and then held her head high; her austere ponytail twitched and danced with the movement.

"This all must be very stressful for you," she said icily.

He turned his back and leaned on a table behind him, glancing at her. Her shoulders were tense. He swore silently and stood up again, standing next to her and turning his eyes on the floor. He rested his hand on her lower back instinctively.

"She doesn't know anything, Jen," he said in a low voice.

Her head snapped towards him and her eyes flashed.

"That supposed to comfort me?" she asked aggressively. "She'll find out eventually, Jethro, and then it's all to hell."

"What do you want me to do, _tell her_?" he demanded tightly.

The look she gave him was so threatening and horrified that he had his answer without her vocalizing. Aside from World War Three breaking out, he didn't know what would come of him coming clean to Diane, and neither did she. The thought made her feel small and overwhelmed and very _young_. She felt inexperienced and lost for the first time in years, and she hated that feeling.

She drew her lips into a tense line and shook her head, setting her jaw tightly. She reached behind her and touched his hand, her fingers slipping into his in a surprisingly tender, needy way. She stroked his hand, pressing his palm into her back, and then she pushed his hand away as if was the hardest thing she'd ever done.

"We got in too deep, Jethro," she admitted hoarsely. She looked at him sideways, guardedly, her green eyes hard and unreadable. "I don't want to talk about this."

Jenny stepped away and looked over the ballroom again, her head held high.

"We have a job to do."

* * *

Gibbs was having severe difficulties figuring out what was going on in his mind, and it was putting him in a dangerous, angry mood. His jaw was tense and tight from where he'd been tensing it all night, and his head was pounding. He needed a stout glass of bourbon, but that was out of the question.

Irrationally, he directed his anger at Diane, misplacing it, trying to deal with his emotions. Her call had upset Jenny, and it bothered him that Jenny was upset; he had come to discover that he hated to see Jenny upset. He was facing the very real possibility of this affair blowing up in his face and it was appalling that he'd never really dwelled on that before.

Telling Diane about this would break her heart. It would shatter something fragile and open a can of worms that he couldn't begin to understand. He and Diane were already on the rocks; they were going to end in divorce. He'd known that for months now, and he was enough of a bastard to do nothing to stop it. It wouldn't be Jenny's fault when their marriage ended—but when he'd considered his marriage breaking up before, he'd thought of it was a sort of pained relief; it would be awful and bloody, but he'd be free to suffer his grief his way again.

But now there was Jenny.

He hadn't expected Jenny.

Gibbs rubbed his jaw tensely, standing near a pillar outside the White House. He grit his teeth and checked his watch, aching to get out of this stuffy black-tie affair. He prowled along the sidewalk a little, trying to let the night air clear his head. A Secret Service patrolman saluted him as he walked by, and Gibbs returned the gesture mechanically.

He stopped near the next pillar and swore under his breath.

"Women," he growled to himself, labeling the whole damn sex a scapegoat, frustrated into irrationalities.

"You and I got the same problems, bud."

Gibbs turned on his heel abruptly, alert to the company. He paused and blinked slowly as he slowly registered that he was face to face with—

"Mr. President," he greeted respectfully, inclining his head.

Clinton raised a glass of amber liquid—amber liquid Gibbs was damn jealous of—and nodded cordially, unfazed to find an unknown agent lurking in his apparent hiding spot.

"Your wife making your life hell?" Clinton asked knowingly.

"Ah, somethin' like that," Gibbs answered cautiously.

He straightened his shoulders a little. The President of the United States was standing in front of him chatting casually about wife problems—even _Gibbs_ was disconcerted.

"Been there," Clinton remarked, drinking from his glass. "She's always got an opinion on everything, always thinks I'm doin' something wrong," Clinton shook his head and raised his brows at Gibbs. "You'd think she was the one elected."

Clinton smiled, and Gibbs smirked in return, well aware of what it was like to have a woman try to dictate, criticize, and analyze his every move.

"Women," Clinton muttered, raising his glass in toast. "Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

"Sir?" Gibbs asked gruffly. "Mr. President, where's the Secret Service?"

Clinton laughed and gestured all around.

"You may not see them, but they see us," he snorted wisely. "They're decent enough to let me think I gave them the slip," he added wryly, breathing the air in deeply.

Gibbs raised his eyebrows, amused, and nodded, watching President Clinton briefly enjoy the night air. The President knocked back the rest of his drink and gave Gibbs a sage look.

"I better get back in there before the First Lady sends out a search party," he said seriously, backing up a little. He started to leave and then turned back, giving Gibbs a smug look. "Man to man, let me tell you something," he said, lowering his voice.

"I'd be honored, sir," Gibbs said smartly, inclining his head.

Clinton pointed at him around the crystal glass he'd been using.

"The trick is, give women what the want," he lifted his chin a little, "and get what they won't give you from someone else," he finished vaguely.

Gibbs blinked, staring as Clinton strolled back towards the ballroom.

Words of wisdom, from the leader of the free world.

* * *

It was much later than they had anticipated when the Director was finally ready to leave, and they were all tired. He placed a quick call to Diane to let her know he'd be after one—she mumbled half-awake into the phone that she didn't care; she'd already been asleep.

Gibbs offered to drive Jenny home; she accepted. Morrow was squared away with his personal detail and safely on his way home. The ride to Jenny's brownstone was comfortably silent—she slouched semi-stiffly against the window, her eyes drooping tiredly. She'd slipped her heels off and placed them up on his dash. He could see chipped red nail polish on her toes through the pale beige of her stockings.

He parked the car outside of her town house and killed the engine. He sat with his hand on the keys silently, staring at the headlights for what seemed like a lifetime. He turned and looked at her; Jenny was looking at her shoes, or out the front windshield—she was looking away from him.

"You gonna go?" he asked mildly.

He knew she'd know what he was talking about, just as she immediately knew he didn't mean _are you gonna get out of my car?_

Jenny took a deep breath and lifted her head, splaying her nails out on her thigh. She smoothed the hem of her skirt, her fingers brushing her skin.

"Gibbs, I don't want to be at a cook out with your wife anymore than you do," she answered dully. "If I go, I'm despicable. I'm throwing myself in her face. If I don't," Jenny paused, shaking her head in a lost way. She shrugged. "If I don't, it's worse. It says _guilty_."

She fell silent again and ran her index finger lightly along her bottom lip, looking at it with interest when it came away clean of lipstick. She sat up straighter and sat forward, reaching behind her to yank her hair from its high ponytail. She ran her hands through it roughly, combing it out wildly over her shoulders and he watched, mesmerized. He figured it meant they were done talking about Diane's ominous invitation.

"You have to get home?" Jenny asked abruptly.

He took his time answer; he was busy looking at her, and hating that he had to leave.

"Yeah," he answered finally.

"What time is it?"

He glanced at the clock on the dash.

"Quarter 'til two."

She pulled a tube of the lipstick he'd been so taken with from her pocket, and leaned towards him, narrowing her eyes in the rearview mirror and splashing a fresh smear of colour onto her lips. He couldn't help but stare longingly at the seductive red—still matched the bottom of the heels on his dashboard.

She threw the lipstick onto the dash with the shoes and looked at him. Her hair was a mess.

"_Lilith_," she said.

He furrowed his brow.

"What?" he asked gruffly.

She puckered her lips and touched the bottom one delicately with her pinky finger, the colour staining her manicured nail.

"The colour," she clarified. "It's called _Lilith_."

He didn't get it. He thought it was weird, lipstick named after a woman. They usually had clichéd, silly names like 'guilty pleasure' or 'the missionary position'. Diane wore one called 'endangered species'. It was coral and he hated it.

He leaned back and looked at her.

"Damn good colour," he complimented huskily. She leaned closer and touched his hand; she turned the key and killed the headlights.

He shifted and reached out to touch her neck and puller her closer at the same time she reached for his lapel and initiated a kiss. He felt the lipstick smudge onto his mouth and squeezed her collarbone gently, his other hand slipping around her waist to pull her closer. Jenny wriggled uncomfortably, the middle console in their way, but she slipped her arms around his neck and pressed against him best she could.

He broke the kiss for air and trailed his lips down her throat, stopping to hang his head and breathe her in deeply. Her perfume appealed to him as strongly as the red lipstick; the way she dressed appealed to him, the way she carried herself, the woman she was—he was finding it harder and harder to drag himself away every time.

She was right; they'd gotten in too deep.

He couldn't stop; didn't want to. He wanted Jenny too badly.

"Jethro," she murmured.

Her head was resting on his shoulder, almost in a hug. She moved and her hair brushed against his chest; her breath warm on his neck as she spoke.

"How long's it been since you had sex in a car, hmm?" she teased quietly.

She lifted her head and he ran his hand through her hair, pushing it back off of her face. Any protest he might have tried died on his lips when he met her green eyes. She reached for his tie and undid it, sliding it from his neck.

"Your lips are stained," she muttered, biting her lower lip fetchingly. He reached for her thigh with his free hand, pushing up her skirt, toying with the lace, adhesive edge of her thigh-high stockings.

She put the tie in her mouth and blotted her lips with it while she loosened the collar of his dress shirt. She let the tie fall, paused, and hung it around her neck casually. She started to unbutton his white shirt and leaned forward, brushing her lips against his neck promisingly.

"What else do you want me to stain, Jethro?" she asked huskily, and he surrendered.

Half an hour later, he was drinking in his basement with the boat for company and lipstick on his collar.

* * *

After a slew of unrewarding cases that took manpower, stress, and time to close, there usually came a lull in work, and the end of August was no exception. The most exciting thing since the White House dinner had been an accidental injury at Quantico after two Marine dependents got into it over a petty officer they both thought was cute. Jenny hadn't seen such mindless screaming and whining since she was in the eighth grade.

It was half-past-three at the office on the fourth dead day of the week, and she was back from her trip to pick up lunch. They'd drawn straws again to see who would go—and she'd lost. Again. She smirked wickedly as she tossed McDonald's bags at Decker and Burley, hoping they enjoyed their _salads_.

"Where's Gibbs?" she asked, placing his food on his desk before she returned to her own.

"Dunno, he disappeared right after you left," Burley answered. "Aww, c'mon, Shepard," Stan whined, pulling his salad out of the bag. He looked in vain for some French fries or a greasy burger and then glared at the redhead.

"You were the one complaining that you're out of shape," Jenny retorted.

"When?!" demanded Burley, outraged.

"The other day when we were chasing that perp," Decker supplied, tearing open his own bag. He gave Jenny a baleful look when he saw his salad but accepted the punishment for making her go get food for the third day in a row.

Burley pointed a plastic fork at Decker sharply.

"You should be on my side," he grumbled. "You better not be eating a burger, Jenny," Burley warned, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Nope," Jenny said brightly, pulling her chicken sandwich out of the bag.

"Why don't _you_ have to eat a salad?" asked Decker, gesturing at her food indignantly.

"Because I bruised you twice and flipped Stan once in workouts yesterday," Jenny answered primly.

"Hey I was _tired_!" Burley snapped.

Jenny scoffed, pointing at him accusingly.

"Exhaustion due to a night spent screwing your girlfriend is not an excuse!" she gloated smugly, arching an eyebrow.

Burley opened his mouth as if to retort, and then meekly closed it, opening his salad loudly and pointedly stabbing lettuce. He seemed to accept a salad if it meant everyone knew he was getting plenty of action.

Jenny smirked and turned to her food, sneakily munching on the French fries she'd left inside her bag. She didn't want to make the boys _too_ jealous of her salty, deliciously unhealthy lunch.

"Hey, Shepard," Burley called, chucking his wadded up bag at her head playfully. "You going to Mrs. Gibbs' cookout Saturday?"

Jenny swatted the paper away and glared at him, kicking it back towards him balefully.

"You sure I was invited?" she asked, cocking a brow.

"You weren't?" Burley asked, his smile fading. He looked uncomfortable. "Oh."

"Yeah she was," Decker assured him, rolling his eyes. "She's just screwin' with you, Stan, why aren't you used to that yet?"

Jenny smiled, biting off the edge of a fry crisply. She pressed her lips together while she chewed and crossed her legs under her desk.

"Well, you goin'?" Burley repeated, interested.

She looked at him mildly for a moment and then turned her attention to Decker and shrugged. She looked at him for a moment, too, and then looked down at her food and swallowed, shaking her head a little.

"I don't think so," she said coolly.

"Dammit, why not?" demanded Burley. He sounded genuinely disappointed. Her head snapped up at him and she glared at him tensely for a moment; he made enough searing, crude remarks about it to know exactly _why not_.

"You know why not," she snapped at him frigidly.

Burley's mouth quirked up at the corner and he tried to look innocent.

"Not a fan of barbeque, Jenny?"

"What were you hoping for, Stan, a little knock-down drag-out pussycat fight?" Jenny fired back wryly, her tone humorless.

"I'd put my money on you," Burley offered seriously.

Decker chucked some wadded up paper at him.

"Cut it out, Stan, it's not funny," he admonished uncomfortably. Jenny bit off another bit of French fry, eyeing Stan intently while she ate. He noticed the glare and shrugged a little.

"You should go, you know," Decker spoke up neutrally.

She cut her eyes to him dangerously. When he didn't say anything else, she took the bait.

"Why?"

Decker and Burley looked at each other and seemed to have a silent argument. Decker shrugged, and Burley leaned back in his chair, holding his plastic salad container.

"It'd look weird if you didn't," he muttered through his fork, busy shoveling greens into his mouth.

Decker nodded, wincing when she turned her eyes back on him tensely again.

"Gibbs' wife isn't trying to set you up, Jenny," Decker muttered. Jenny resisted the urge to snort derisively. "She can't _not_ invite you."

"I don't have to show up on her turf, either," Jenny pointed out callously.

"Stan's right," Decker said, shrugging comfortably again. "It'd be weird if you didn't. If she thinks somethin's going on behind her back, that confirms it. Hate to break it to ya."

"What would be going on behind her back, Will?" Jenny asked delicately, making it clear that this conversation should go no further.

"Jesus, Shepard, come _on_. We were _all_ there in Maryland," Stan mumbled through a mouthful, rolling his eyes. Decker hissed at him to shut up, and Burley made a face, holding up a hand in apology. For all they knew, that could have been a one-time thing.

"Whatever," Burley muttered, swallowing his food. "Look, you've got to show, you gotta back up me and Deck. Gibbs is twice as bad when his wife makes him do things like a normal guy," Stan explained with a shudder. "Last time, he made Agent Rawls _cry_."

"Rawls?" Jenny asked, brow furrowed.

"He was you back on the Boone case," Decker said.

"Except for the," Burley gestured vaguely between Gibbs' desk and Jenny's with his fork, "thing that's not going on or is or whatever," he said gruffly, and then snickered.

Jenny glared at him.

"Yeah, and Gibbs hated Rawls. He likes you, so if you're there he'll be tolerable, and if he's tolerable, Diane won't hit on us to make him jealous," Burley continued seriously.

Jenny stared with an eyebrow raised, trying to piece together an image of the last time this had happened. She took a bite out of her sandwich, looking at them sharply and considering their words. After she'd swallowed, she narrowed her eyes.

"What does it matter to the two of you?" she demanded. "Why do you give a crap about helping me out here?"

"Really, Shepard?" Decker asked, rolling his eyes. "You're our partner. We've got _your_ back first."

Jenny put her pink finger in her mouth to lick sauce off of it, and grinned around it, unable to restrain the warm smile. The elevator dinged and Gibbs marched off, stalking into the bullpen with his usual steely look.

"Food's gettin' cold, Boss," Burley piped up. "Shepard is making us eat rabbit food."

Gibbs pulled his salad out of the bag and glared at her balefully. She waved at him innocently over her chicken sandwich and then swiveled in her chair to look at Decker. She tilted her head thoughtfully, twirling a French fry around in her hand for a moment before parting her lips curiously.

"You think I should bring a date this weekend?" she asked sweetly.

Burley raised his eyes and hands to the ceiling as if praying in earnest for her to do so.

Decker pointedly kept his features schooled.

"Diane gave me a plus one," he answered.

Jenny bit the edge of the fry between her teeth and swiveled to face Gibbs—and the tense, angry, jealous look on his face and laced into the hard line of his jaw made her decision.

He deserved to see her on the arm of another man if she had to share him with another woman.

* * *

After an anxious and frustrating two-hour deliberation over what to wear, Jenny had decided to err on the side of casual for the dreaded Labor Day barbecue. She never could have imagined that picking an outfit for an event hosted by your lover's wife would be so grueling—but then, she never thought she'd be attending an event hosted by her lover's wife because she _never_ entertained the notion that one day she'd take it upon herself to fuck a married man.

But that was then, and this was now, and she was desperately trying to squash the jealous desire to look ten times as good as his wife while at the same time choosing an outfit that didn't obviously downplay her looks and end up making her look suspicious. She wanted to look amazing; she wanted Jethro to eat his heart out—and she was taking Officer Colter, so she couldn't deliberately look sloppy—but she had no desire to offend Jethro's wife or draw distasteful attention to herself.

When she got out of Rick's car at Gibbs' house, she was semi-confidently dressed in tight blue jeans and a button down, lace-accented denim shirt—and outfit that was completed and set off by her careful choice in accessories.

The one indulgence she had allowed herself was choice of lipstick; it was the same colour Jethro had been so taken with at the White House event.

* * *

"Pretty sweet house for a federal agent's salary," Rick said amiably, his hand resting on her lower back as they walked up the drive.

Without looking up, Jenny murmured vague agreement; she was busy tucking a compact mirror back into her green clutch. It was the six or seventh time she'd scrutinized her lipstick, which was probably why Rick asked:

"You freaked out about somethin'? S'just a cook out."

"I know that," she responded a bit testily, reaching out to ring the doorbell. She nitpicked her reflection in the stained glass on the door, straightening her shoulders. "I don't think Gibbs' wife likes me," she muttered, half to herself, and a moment later she was flashing a bright smile as the woman herself opened the front door.

"Hi, Jenny," Diane greeted, everything about her pristinely upbeat. "Perfect timing—Stan and Will both walked in early," she rolled her eyes and gestured them in. "Men, they just don't understand being fashionably late."

Jenny found it was the most natural thing in the world to laugh. Diane shut the door behind them and tilted her head. Jenny chewed her lip, uncomfortable with the look, and then realized Diane was just waiting to be introduced to—

"Oh, I'm sorry," Jenny said, stumbling over her words. "This is Colter. Officer Colter, my—he's—"

"I'm Rick," he took over his own introduction, reaching out to shake Diane's hand with his flashy movie star smile sparkling on his lips. Diane shook his hand warmly and he gestured at Jenny with amusement. "I'm her Rick," he joked.

"Ah," Diane said, inclining her head. "Nice to meet you," she said politely, and slipped past them. She cut her eyes a little and looked over Jenny's outfit, from nude pumps to earrings and hairstyle; she gave Jenny a subtle once-over as she led them towards the kitchen.

"You can leave your purse on the counter if you like," Diane offered. "That's where I made the boys keep their guns."

"They were carrying off duty?" Rick asked conversationally. He wiggled his eyebrows at Jenny. "You feds like your toys close, huh?"

"My husband practically sleeps with his," Diane said, rolling her eyes. She slipped into the kitchen, saying something about lemonade, and Jenny laid her purse on the counter next to Burley and Decker's personal effects. She ran her finger over the Yves St. Laurent insignia on the clasp and took a silent, deep breath.

"You guys go on out back," Diane called from the kitchen.

"You need help with anything, Mrs. Gibbs?" Rick asked cordially.

"Mm," Diane considered his offer. "Well, now that you mention it," she said.

Jenny followed Rick into the kitchen. She flashed a smile.

"I can't let him show me up," she said. "What can I do?"

"Grab that tray of glasses," Diane directed. "Rick, if you'd get a bag of ice?"

"Happy to, ma'am," he said.

"Oh, and call me Diane," the redhead said, leading them out towards the backdoor.

Rick, with a bag of ice thrown over his shoulder, got the back door for them, and Jenny followed Gibbs' wife into the backyard. The autumn sun hit her with light warmth immediately, and she briefly caught sight of a wave from Burley before her eyes fell on Jethro—and there he was, standing at the grill, looking at her walk out of his house right next to his wife.

* * *

Diane rested her hand on Gibbs' elbow to get his attention as she handed him the beer he'd gruffly asked for. He hadn't said anything else, really, and she'd already snapped at him under her breath for failing to greet Jenny and Rick.

"I love your shoes, Diane," Jenny said, eyeing the other woman's white flats with an appreciative eye.

Diane had possibly the most elegant feet Jenny had ever seen, which was annoying. In vain, Jenny was struggling to find something about Diane she could focus on and disparage, but there seemed to be nothing. She was an overwhelmingly beautiful woman, and she looked dazzling. The most infuriating thing about Diane's looks was that she made Jenny feel insecure—and Jenny was not a woman accustomed to feeling insecure.

"Thank you," Diane accepted the compliment airily, and lifted her foot, modeling them a little. "It's my last chance to wear them this season," she lamented, and smiled wryly. "It's not _technically_ after Labor Day yet," she added.

"Smart strategy," Jenny said, and gestured to herself. "I'm _clearly_ underdressed," she remarked dryly, eyeing Diane's classy orange dress and curled hair.

"What? Oh, nonsense," Diane said, waving her hand. "You're comfortable. I'm the hostess. It's my job to upstage everyone else," she laughed. "Besides, I'm standing here silently coveting your Louboutins—how did you find a lipstick shade that matches the soles?"

Gibbs' eyes suddenly snapped over to Jenny and fell to her lips; she met his gaze and he took a drink of alcohol, looking back to the grill. He cleared his throat.

Jenny smirked, tilting her head a little at Diane.

"The gods over at Yves St. Laurent," she answered demurely.

Diane nodded.

"That explains it," she said, rubbing Gibbs' arm subconsciously. "That designer never was my style."

Jenny thought the comment was a little backhanded, and she grit her teeth, smiling a tight, fake smile.

"Leroy," Diane said, turning to Gibbs. "How much longer?"

"They're almost done, Diane," he said edgily. She narrowed her eyes at him, and Jenny flinched, sensing an argument. She stepped back. She hated hearing Diane call him _Leroy_ anyway.

"You don't have to _snap_," she started in on him, and Gibbs looked at Jenny over her head.

Jenny turned away, turned right into Rick, and he grinned at her, leaning a little closer.

"You gotta meet Decker's date," he said, amused. "She's about _twelve_."

Jenny raised her eyebrows, swallowing hard and ignoring Gibbs' eyes on the back of her head—she looked around, and walked with Rick over to the porch, where Decker and Burley were with a woman who did, indeed, look very _very_ young.

* * *

Over the course of the past two hours, Gibbs had attempted to think up a situation that would be worse than this—and he had failed miserably. He'd decided, hands down, he'd rather be stuck in the grimy, bullet-ridden Kuwait desert; at least that was something he was trained to handle.

Diane was tense with all the stress that hosting a cook out created and she was acting incredibly passive-aggressive. Jenny was hanging off the arm of that pretty boy Metro cop whom Gibbs decided he hated; on top of that, Fornell wouldn't stop flirting with his wife.

Fornell play-saluted Diane and she giggled, turning on her heel and retreating to fetch some food from the kitchen. Gibbs turned to the FBI agent and glared at him.

"Knock if off, Tobias," he growled curtly.

"Hey," Fornell held up his hands defensively. "If you aren't going to fulfill your woman's needs, Gibbs…" he teased, trailing off. Fornell snorted at the look on Gibbs face and nudged him, nodding over at Jenny. "How'd Mrs. Gibbs take meeting the runway model over there?" he asked.

"What the hell's that s'pose to mean?" Gibbs asked shortly.

"Means Diane can't be thrilled you've got a young pretty looker like Shepard sitting across from you, working all those late nights…" Fornell grinned mockingly. "Dunno who thought it was a good idea to stick you with a redhead."

Gibbs glared at him menacingly and then shook his head. He furrowed his brow.

"They just complimented each other's shoes," he muttered roughly. He narrowed his eyes.

Fornell nodded seriously.

"Yeah, it's a female ritual. Like their version of a pissing contest," he said sagely. "Women have to out-compliment each other while simultaneously sort of being snide."

Gibbs squinted, glancing across the yard at Jenny. She looked stiff and uncomfortable, still standing next to that metro cop. _Rick_. Rick, who had his arm around Jenny's waist, and whose loose, casual embrace drew attention to the curve of her hips.

"I think Diane insulted Jen's clothes," he added. "Or somethin'."

"_Jen_?" Fornell repeated, turning to Gibbs and raising his brow. He shook his head. "You _want_ to piss your wife off, Jethro?"

Gibbs swore under his breath at the slip-up. Fornell was still looking at him, and then the FBI agent whistled low and shook his head.

"Jesus, Gibbs," he muttered, lowering his voice, sobering it up a little bit. He lifted a drink to his lips and looked over at Jenny briefly. He looked over at Diane coming back out of the house. "Hey, can I have her if you're done?" he joked dryly, very man-to-man.

"Fornell," Gibbs growled again. "Knock it _off_," he repeated.

"You're the one who needs to knock if off," muttered Fornell pointedly, and then Diane was back, and Gibbs was standing there cooking while Fornell flirted with his wife. He stared at Jen until he knew she could feel him glaring, and he thought he was going to suffocate.

* * *

She was grateful for the blissful distraction that was Decker's date.

Rick was close to the mark when he'd said she was _about twelve_—Skyler Jakob was an undergrad at the University of Maryland; she was a bottle blonde with a twiggy figure, lipstick that was way too pink, and eye-liner that was way too Addams Family. The most exciting thing to happen to her this month was the advent of her twenty-first birthday.

She clung to Decker like he was her buoy in a rough ocean, and she chattered away nervously while Burley and Shepard silently mocked their colleague in vague remarks and looks that were over her head.

"What did you say you were studying, Skyler?" Burley asked with a poker face.

"Teaching," the girl answered. "Well, Secondary Education. I want to be a kindergarten teacher. Kids are _soooo_ cute!" Skyler looked at Jenny with her big liquid eyes. "Don't you think so?"

"Hmm? Oh," startled, Jenny licked her lip. "I'm not a kid person," she said abruptly.

Decker glared at her. Jenny smirked.

"No?" Skyler asked. "Why not? You don't want kids?"

Did this _kid_ realize how inappropriate she was being?

"Ahh, no," Jenny answered, arching an eyebrow. She tried to be kind, but couldn't think of anything sweet to say—so she kept quiet. She shook Rick's arm away from her a little, and felt him looking at her.

Skyler looked a little lost.

"So how did you and Deck meet, Skyler?" Burley asked.

"Oh, Will was at the bar where I had my twenty-first…" she trilled, her face lighting up as she told the story.

Jenny shifted her feet uncomfortably and turned, glancing across the yard. Ducky had arrived about ten minutes ago, but he was talking with Diane and Gibbs. She didn't want to interrupt; she hated seeing Gibbs around Diane.

"You okay?" Rick asked in her ear.

Distractedly, she nodded. She didn't look at him. He tilted his head and, after a moment, he let his arm fall from her waist, and she pushed her hair back, folding her arms stiffly. It was more painful than she thought, keeping up this pretense of being with Rick while she watched Jethro cater to his wife.

"Hey," Rick nudged her arm and she finally turned to look at him. "Look, you're distracted. What's up?"

She pushed her hair back again.

"Rick, I'm fine," she said testily. She blew air out through her lips and then rubbed her forehead. "I need a drink," she muttered, and she abandoned him to Burley and Decker—she felt both Burley and Rick looking after her as she headed to the cooler.

She plunged her hand into the ice, enjoying the slightly stinging freezing cold, and opened a beer—a drink she had noticed Diane daintily refused to touch. Just another way in which that stunning woman was annoying Jenny at the moment; refusing beer was so _delicate_ and _irritating_.

"Jennifer, my dear, you look positively lovely."

Jenny turned to Ducky as he greeted her, and smiled half-heartedly.

"You're sweet, Ducky," she said demurely, taking a drink.

He smiled at her good-naturedly.

"Well, I only speak the truth," he said, toasting her with a glass of Diane's lemonade.

Jenny toasted him back and drank again, closing her eyes a little as the alcohol bubbled down her throat. She felt ill, and then calm; she opened her eyes again and saw Rick looking at her; she looked away quickly. Her eyes met Gibbs over Ducky's shoulder and she couldn't look away.

"Hey, Ducky," she said. To her horror, her voice cracked, and she was forced to take another drink, grit her teeth, and brace herself before she continued. She wrenched her eyes away from Jethro's icy blue ones. "How long does etiquette require I stay in order to be a polite guest?"

Ducky considered her a moment.

"At least an hour after lunch, I suppose," he said, looking at her intently. He sighed and shook his head a bit. "You don't want to be here, do you, my dear?" he asked, a touch of sympathy in his voice. He looked at her in a way that was much too probing and open for her comfort.

She smiled at him wryly and looked at him guardedly.

"You don't listen to gossip, do you Ducky?" she asked quietly, arching her eyebrow.

He gave her a somewhat sad look, and she took a quick drink of beer as Burley trudged over, engaged in conversation with Rick.

"Hey, throw me a beer, Shep," Burley said amiably.

She complied silently, tossing it to him. She looked at Rick, but he silently turned her down, and Jenny straightened up. He came to a stop next to her, and Jenny stiffened a little.

"Jenny," Burley said, toasting her with his beer. She glanced at him, and he smirked at her good-naturedly. "Kinda fun to see Gibbs on his wife's leash, innit?" he asked, clearly attempting to cheer her up.

She managed a half-hearted smile, and toasted him back, and her eyes were drawn back to Gibbs' over Ducky's shoulder.

"I believe it is about time to eat," Ducky announced brightly.

She barely heard him. She was watching as Gibbs inexplicably reached out and clasped Diane's hand—brought it to his lips, and kissed it gently. She felt like crying, and when she abruptly looked away, it was to find Rick staring at her tensely.

* * *

It was such a goddamn soap opera; the afternoon had it all—long-suffering, silent looks, tense smiles, veiled statements that left a slight uncomfortable taste in the air. It was made worse after lunch by Decker's decisions to relate the story of Jenny's prank on Gibbs back in their early days.

"…so not only does Gibbs get dumped out of his chair, she'd put his drawer back in upside down so when he opened it damn near a hundred of the things fell on his head," Decker finished grandly.

They were all laughing—Skyler obnoxiously so. Ducky chuckled in his grandfatherly way, Fornell looked delighted, Jenny had no idea what Rick thought because she was busy covertly eyeing Diane. The lady of the house looked calmly amused by the scenario.

"It's about time one of you gave him hell," she remarked, leaning back. She rubbed Gibbs' shoulder affectionately and raised her brow at him. "There's nothing wrong with sitting your boss on his ass once in a while."

Decker snorted and toasted Diane.

"Here, here, Mrs. Gibbs," he complimented.

"Will, honestly, how many times—"

"Diane, Diane," he corrected sheepishly. He put his arm around his date's shoulders to make her feel more comfortable, and while Jenny was noting that easy movement, Diane looked straight at her and caught her off guard.

"Why condoms, though?" she asked.

Jenny widened her eyes a little, utterly taken aback by the question. She collected herself, shrugged good-naturedly and parted her lips, pretending to think it over intently. She glanced over at Burley as if they were sharing a secret and held out her hand vaguely.

"Nothin' makes Gibbs more uncomfortable than sex," she said bluntly.

Decker coughed into his drink and glared at her lightly. She pointed her unused for at Gibbs accusingly and nodded wryly.

"He's a prude," she asserted. "Worried about my _ladylike_ sensibilities," she teased, rolling her eyes and setting her shoulders back.

Diane laughed, and rubbed Gibbs' arm again.

"I'd call that being a gentleman," she said a little coolly.

"Semantics," Jenny said politely, flashing a convincingly warm smile at the other woman.

"Semantics?" Gibbs growled at her sarcastically. "You callin' me names, Jen?"

"Get a dictionary, Jethro."

"Get a dictionary, Leroy."

Both women spoke at the same time, and Jenny tightened her jaw immediately. She didn't miss the way Diane's eyes narrowed with irritation at the other redhead's use of _Jethro_—but Jenny was willing to bet Gibbs would be the one in trouble, because calling your colleague by an affectionate nickname was probably a worse offense.

"Hey, Diane, did you make that banana pudding you had last time?" Burley asked out of the blue—and whether it was intentional or a completely random blunder, Jenny didn't know, but she had never loved Stan Burley more in her life.

Diane's attention was immediately drawn away.

"I did," Jenny heard her say, and smile radiantly at Burley as he started to compliment her.

Gibbs leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and rubbed his jaw. He reached over and put his hand over Diane's tensely. Jenny swallowed hard and leaned back in her chair abruptly, so Fornell's head blocked her view of Jethro. A hand grasped her shoulder and she jumped a little, turning sharply in that direction.

"Rick," she murmured, looking relieved. "Jesus, you startled me," she admonished him. Her brow furrowed. "Where were you?" she asked, confused. She hadn't even noticed him get up.

He shook his keys at her by way of answer and tilted his head towards the house.

"C'mere a minute," he requested neutrally. "Out front."

Jenny cleared her throat. She took her napkin from her lap and placed it on the table, and then she stood quietly, drawing as little attention to herself as possible. She touched Fornell's shoulder and told him she'd be right back.

She was well aware that Gibbs watched her leave.

* * *

She followed Rick onto Gibbs' front porch and into his drive. He stopped halfway to the cliché white picket fence and turned to face her, his hands in his pockets. She stopped abruptly herself and crossed her arms, raising her eyebrows.

"What, Rick?" she asked, a little exasperated.

She tucked hair behind her ears. It was falling out of the loose ponytail she'd swept her hair into.

He shrugged and looked at her a little incredulously.

"You lied to me," he accused mildly.

"I _lied_ to you?" she scoffed back, caught off guard.

"You told me you didn't have anything going on with your boss," Colter said, and he was louder this time—whether he meant to be or not. He narrowed his eyes at her sharply, his hands fidgeting in his pockets.

She stepped forward swiftly.

"You need to keep your voice down," she growled icily.

He nodded; he noticed that she didn't deny it.

"Yeah, I reckon I do," he agreed tensely, lowering his voice angrily. "I don't wanna be involved in this—you brought me here as a cover, so his wife wouldn't—"

"Rick, I didn't—"

"Bullshit. You know damn well you did. You used me. I figured you were lyin' when you said you weren't sleeping with him. Didn't know he was _married_. You _used_ me."

"I wasn't lying when you asked me," she told him caustically. It was a painfully grey argument; a lawyer's loophole. "It was true—then."

"That supposed to make me feel better?" Rick asked sarcastically.

She fell silent, and he gave her a bitter smile.

"I liked you, Jenny. I thought when you said all that crap about keeping it casual and not wanting a family, I figured you were playing hard to get."

"I wasn't," she snapped curtly.

"Yeah, I get it. You were tryin' to be up front and honest and I ignored you. That's on me. But what you're doing is wrong, Jen, and you don't have a right to drag me into it."

"Do _not_ call me 'Jen'," she snapped, and went on fiercely: "You don't get to tell me how to live my life."

"Naw, I don't, and I don't want to," he shot back aggressively. "But I don't have to be a part of it."

He yanked his keys out of his pocket.

"Look, I'm heading out. I've got work at the precinct."

"Rick, you can't leave me here," she argued practically. "I rode with you."

He shrugged.

"It's not my job to be a martyr for your sins."

"Profound, Father Colter," she mocked ruthlessly.

"There a problem out here?"

For a horrifying moment, Jenny thought it was Gibbs—but she was wrong; Burley wandered up, looking critically at Colter.

"Not your concern, man."

"She's my partner, Colter—"

"It's fine," Jenny interrupted. "Burley, it's fine. Rick, go. Just leave."

She didn't want to carry on like this in Gibbs' front drive.

The handsome metro cop eyed her intently and then rubbed his neck anxiously. He leaned forward, pecked her cheek coldly, and turned briskly towards his car. Jenny watched him go with stinging, frustrated eyes—pissed at him for calling her out, and mired in insecurity and self-doubt.

"Hey, Shepard," Burley touched her shoulder cautiously. "You okay?"

She was silent for a long time.

"Can you give me a ride home, Stan?" she asked finally, her voice thick but steady.

"Yeah, no problem," he said automatically.

She looked over at him, and she gave him a small smile. He grinned and jerked his thumb towards the house.

"C'mon, Shep, you gotta see Diane interact with Skyler, it's hilarious," he said breezily, nudging her and pulling her towards the house. He winked at her. "It's like animal planet—hey, I'll make up some embarrassing story 'bout why Officer Dick had to leave."

Jenny reached up nervously and pulled her hair down, running her hand through it to shake it out. She pressed her lips together and laughed at Burley, half in shock that he'd saved her ass twice today.

He looked pleased that he'd made her laugh, and he shrugged helplessly. She met his eyes and found something she could relate to there; she knew he and Margaret were crashing and burning because Stan wanted what Margaret didn't believe in.

It could be that they were beginning to see eye to eye.

* * *

Diane checked her appearance critically before she left the bathroom, set on making sure her makeup and hair were still immaculate. She dried her hands and found her way back to the living room; it had become slightly overcast outdoors and as stressful as it was for her to have people in the house, she'd opened the doors to let them know she was fine with it.

She narrowed her eyes when she saw Jenny Shepard sharing dessert with Stan Burley; she was inexplicably irritated by the cutesy way the other woman was teasing Burley. Tensely, Diane forced herself to look away and pointed Leroy into the kitchen when she walked past him.

"Decker and his little girlfriend leave?" she asked, enlisting her husband to help her put ice into a more indoor-appropriate bucket.

Gibbs smirked.

"Yeah, right after they said 'bye to you."

"I suppose he had to get her home for quiet hours and bedtime," Diane said dryly. She shook her head in disbelief and shut the freezer. "What is it with men and these girls in their twenties?" she asked, scoffing slightly. "You think Decker would be ready for something a little less vapid."

Gibbs didn't say anything. He listened to Diane dutifully, letting his mind slip a little.

Jen was twenty-five—no. Something struck him suddenly; a memory of her employee file. She had a birthday in the next few weeks; she'd be twenty-six soon.

Gibbs narrowed his eyes at her. She was getting pretty damn cozy with Burley, now that her metro boy toy had disappeared.

Diane handed Gibbs an ice tray insistently, forcing him to help her pop the cubes out. She followed his glare across the room and sniffed, lifting her chin loftily and tossing her hair back.

"How does she get along with your team?" Diane asked.

"Fine," he answered abruptly. "Good agent," he muttered vaguely.

"Hmm," Diane murmured primly. "She's aloof," Diane remarked edgily. "When you get that much attention from men, though, I suppose it's second nature to be a little bitchy."

Gibbs bristled defensively, looking over at Diane with distaste.

"You turn plenty of heads, Diane," he said neutrally.

"Are you saying I'm bitchy, Leroy?"

"Not what I said."

She snorted derisively.

"I think we've already established that you think I'm a bitch," she said sourly. She turned a critical gaze back on Jenny, her insecurities getting the best of her. Shepard had come back in from her little showdown with her date with her hair messily falling around her shoulders—and Diane was infuriatingly jealous of the other woman's looks.

Shepard was an inarguable stunner, one of those women who managed to look like one-of-the-boys and a damn runway model at the same time, and Diane was finding it less and less acceptable for her to be working so closely with Leroy.

"She's got Stan eating out of the palm of her hand," Diane said cattily.

"Burley and Shepard hate each other," Gibbs snorted, glancing over. Jenny was punching Burley in the shoulder playfully, and snatched his bowl of dessert out of his hand assertively. Diane scoffed under her breath.

"She doesn't seem to like you much," Diane baited vaguely. "She must not know she's right up your alley," Diane paused. "Then again, she was just as cool to her date."

"Where'd he go?" Gibbs asked bluntly.

"Ducky told me he had a crime scene to get to," Diane said, and lowered her voice matter-of-factly. "I think they had a fight. She looked pissed when she came back inside," Diane shrugged and popped the last pieces of ice out of her tray. "I don't know that I blame him for leaving. She seemed totally uninterested in him," Diane asserted. "Frigid."

"Give it a rest, Diane," Gibbs said gruffly, rolling his eyes tensely. He took the ice trays and refilled them, replacing them in the freezer.

"What the hell do you expect from me, Leroy, nothing but good words about her?" Diane demanded, her tone raw. She shook her head and raised her brows in disbelief. She picked up the ice bucket and turned towards him, her mouth set in a tight, unforgiveable line. "The way you've been staring at her all day, you're damn lucky I haven't ripped her throat open yet."

She stormed away, and in an instant her tone was light and diplomatic again and there was a lovely smile on her face—and he leaned on the kitchen counter, this time looking at his wife as she made conversation, and for a dizzying, guilty second, vehemently wishing he had the stones to tell her he'd rather be with Jen.

* * *

She was unsure how much longer she could keep up her façade; dessert was gone, the weather was getting gloomier, and Burley was engaged in swapping ridiculous _war_ stories with Fornell.

She had long since zoned out of her conversation with Ducky when Fornell said something, and Diane responded by challenging him to put his mouth where a shot of whiskey was.

"You're not as tough as you talk, Tobias," she mocked. "I saw you cry over Kyle Boone."

"Lady, _everybody_ cried over Kyle Boone," Fornell retorted gallantly. "I swear on my word as an agent, I can drink Gibbs under the table."

"Oh your word as an _agent_," Gibbs said gruffly. He glared at Fornell and shook his head. "Thought you might say your word as a gentleman."

"Well that wouldn't be any good," Fornell retorted wryly, and winked at Diane. "Just ask your wife."

Diane laughed good-naturedly.

"I ought to kick you out of my house," she chided, amused. "Leroy, go grab him your bourbon," she ordered.

"Let me," Jenny offered mildly. "Wouldn't want Gibbs tampering with it," she added, and pointed towards the laundry room. "Basement?"

"Yes," Diane said guardedly. "Careful of the stairs," she added, and gestured at Jenny's shoes. "They're treacherous."

Jenny smiled tensely and escaped the living room; glad to be quietly alone for a moment. She shot Burley a quick, curt look as she left—maybe he'd take the hint; she wanted out.

She was starting to feel like she couldn't breathe.

It was hot in the laundry room, and she easily found the door for the basement and tackled the old stairs Diane had warned her of. She found them easy to conquer, but she was a pro in heels. She stepped to the cold concrete floor and stopped, for the first time seeing the infamous boat.

It was a shell; half-finished, rough around the edges, bigger than she'd imagined and breathtaking in a surreal way.

She moved closer, completely forgetting the whiskey she was after for a moment. She reached out and touched the pale wood tentatively, careful of splinters. It had all the makings of a masterpiece, composed of hours of work and needing hours still. There was fragility to it—a safe atmosphere to this sanctuary of his.

He had built this with his _hands_.

She couldn't imagine the quiet patience, the intense hours it had taken to get this far—the measuring, calculating, precise woodwork that had produced the skeleton of this boat. He worked out his anger here—he sawed, nailed, and sanded away his frustration and no doubt shut himself into this project to barricade out some haunting thing he couldn't get away from.

It made all the sense in the world. His boat was like her lust for revenge; a distraction and a soothing mechanism all at once.

She moved her palm over the wood, her lips parting. It smelled like him here, like sawdust, dried whiskey, and coffee—it smelled like her sheets after he left her bed.

She heard his footsteps on the stairs and it was as if she knew he was coming.

"Jen, you don't know where the hell my bourbon is," he said gruffly, loudly, his foots hitting the steps heavily.

Was he an idiot, using her name like that, or did he not care—did he just want to throw her in his wife's face?

She turned and looked at him. He slowed down, stepping off the stairs and looking at her bluntly.

"You built this?" she asked quietly.

He put his hands in his pockets, and then nodded, watching her hand. She twisted around some more and looked at his workbench. Her brow furrowed.

"No power tools?" she asked skeptically.

He shrugged and strolled to the workbench. He picked up a sander and moved next to her, removing her hand from the boat, siding the tool onto her knuckles. Without a word, he gently maneuvered her hand to glide the sander over the boat, his arm brushing her side as he showed her.

"Close your eyes," he ordered.

She stiffened and turned sharply to look at the stairs. She opened her mouth to protest and the words died on her lips. She closed her eyes. She could hear muffled conversation and muted footsteps from upstairs.

He pressed her hand more firmly on the boat, his palm covering hers, standing too close. He put his hand on her shoulder, angling her more towards the boat, and murmured gruffly under his breath, moving her hand up the rib of the boat on one prolonged motion.

"Feel the wood?" he asked.

She nodded, biting the inside of her lip.

He tapped her knuckle lightly.

"You don't get a sensation like that from a power tool," he growled lightly, disparaging the high-tech advancement.

She laughed huskily, her breath catching in her throat. His wife was walking around upstairs, and he had her pressed up against his boat in the basement. It was absurd—it was insulting. She didn't pull away.

She gripped the boat; he took his hand off of hers, and slipped the sander off her knuckles; he tossed it onto the boat.

"This is beautiful," she said, looking up at the arch of the boat. She licked her lip and took it in, impressed. She knew if she turned her head, she'd breathe him in too deeply, and then she might lose her control.

She swallowed.

"I shouldn't have come, Jethro," she said dully. She took a step back and looked at him her hand sliding off the wood. "You should _not_ have followed me down here," she added seriously.

"Didn't want you to get hurt on the stairs," he said.

She opened her mouth, her tongue pushing off from her teeth with a soft click.

"I am hurting," she admitted hoarsely. "I despise feeling like your dirty little secret," she said. "I don't have to live this way," her voice caught; she swallowed, bit her lip for a moment. Her eyes narrowed possessively. She reached up to push her hair back messily and a to-hell-with-it expression lit up her face.

"It's your responsibility to stop, and if you want me, I want yo—"

He grabbed her hand from her hair and leaned forward; he kissed her hard. She breathed in the kiss hungrily, like justification, like confirmation. It was only forbidden fruit that could taste this impossibly, intoxicatingly _good_.

His kiss was searing; it burned her mouth, and she broke it quickly, reaching up to roughly scrub the lipstick from his mouth with her thumb.

"You better get back up there with the whiskey," she managed to say, fighting away the wild, weak desire to throw herself against him and refuse to let go. She combed a hand through her hair and turned her face into her elbow to avoid his eyes; he went to the shelf and fetched the bourbon, and disappeared quickly—he knew her well enough to know she needed a minute.

He knew her so well.

She heard him bark a joke; something about Shepard determined to figure out how he would get the boat out.

How had this happened—how had she gotten in so deep she was drowning, how had she been so careless, so blind, so selfish? Her mind kept yanking her back to Margaret's flippant words—you couldn't control who you were attracted to—_but you can control your actions, Jenny_—you couldn't control who you fell in love with.

The thoughts infuriated her—they were painful. Margaret didn't believe in love; Margaret didn't have anything to lose when things with Stan went wrong. But Jenny was in love, and the stress and the sin of it was suffocating; she had everything to lose and the _only_ way for it to go was wrong.

* * *

References: NCIS Season 2 Episode _"Doppelgänger"_ (basement boat sanding scene), Sex & the City ("_Attack of the 20 Somethings_"), Vice President Al Gore, Former President Jimmy Carter, NCIS Season 3 Episode _"Kill Ari_" ("I Missed you, Jen!"), The Bible (sort of) President Clinton, NCIS Season 5 Episode "_The Ex-Files_" (Ducky: You'll never find a better man than Jethro..."), NCIS Season 3 Episode _"Probie"_ (Get a dictionary; Semantics), NCIS Season 4 Episode _"Blowback"_ (Never screw/screw over your partner), Hillary Clinton, NCIS Season 1 Episode _"Enigma"_ (Rule #12), The Clinton-Lewinsky Sex Scandal, NCIS Season 4 Episode "_Angel of Death_" (Jenny's right eye twitches when she lies).

*The Adele song is chosen due to the nature of the song (obviously) and the suspicious Diane has/the rumors at NCIS/Jenny's conflicted feelings, etc. I am **not** insinuating anything.

_I know I crammed a lot into this chapter. /don't care/.  
Feedback appreciated, as always!  
_-_Alexandra_


	14. Jennifer Shepard Red

_A/N: This chapter may feel...ah, familiar to you towards the end. It also contains probably my favorite Burley/Jenny scene. I figured while 'Shiva' rips our hearts out tonight, I'll contribue to the heartache with this. And note: there is a direct correlation between how good the smut is, and how much of a bastard Leroy Jethro Gibbs is. Let's observe. _

_"Things fall apart;  
the center cannot hold;  
mere anarchy is loosed upon the world."_

_-William Butler Yeats; "The Second Coming". _

_"Love can be a tragedy when you do what you did to me; all I'm seeing now is red." -Miranda Lambert; "A Sin for a Sin". [Playlist]_

* * *

_Chapter Thirteen: Jennifer Shepard Red_

What better way to wash away sin than a scalding hot shower? The question was facetious; fucking her married lover in the shower was more akin to being baptized in immorality than absolved—but if the water was roughly the temperature of Hell's second circle, she figured she could pretend she was being sterilized or punished or—well she really only spared half a minute to give a damn before she was back to remembering she didn't care if she was committing cardinal crimes.

She wasn't even that religious.

She reached up and shoved heavy, soaking wet hair out of her face, ensuring it tangled behind her neck and shoulders; she parted her lips and tilted her head back, her nails digging into his biceps. The shower control was digging into her lower back—but it was working in her favor; every time she arched or shifted to relieve the pain, Jethro gripped her thighs tighter to balance her and thrust against her to ensure he wouldn't drop her.

And that felt so amazing, she almost couldn't breathe.

He had the shower head angled so the water hit her _just_ right in between them; it was pleasure that was almost over-stimulating—not that she'd ever bitch about it. If the faucet was digging into her spine that _really_ was the _least_ of her worries since she couldn't remember ever having sex in the shower that actually worked.

Jethro had the bright idea to throw her nice Egyptian cotton towel on the floor of the shower to provide traction. She no longer gave a damn that it was soaked with a deluge of soap and water; she was busy trying not to scream as loudly as she did the first time she came.

After all, Noemi was downstairs.

Her hands slipped on his arms and then she pushed her hair back again and reached for his neck, running her fingers over his collarbone and leaning forward for a deep kiss. Water splashed onto her lips, peppered her eyes, and ran over her skin in a maddening tickle. He shifted and pushed her back into the tile, hitching her up again, and she moaned, holding tight to his neck.

He did it again and she gasped hoarsely.

"Jethro," she murmured against his lips, shaking her head desperately. She tugged the silver hair at the nape of his neck. "You're going to break me," she swore vaguely.

"I'm hurting you?" he asked, his hands loosening on her thighs.

"No," she said, clinging to him, pressing her body into his and shaking her head fervently. She kissed him again. "No, don't stop what you're doing," she muttered between lustful kisses, attempting to devour his mouth with hers. She couldn't explain what she'd meant when she said that, except she thought she might blackout if he didn't stop touching her and making her feel this way.

He grinned; she felt his lips move into their signature smirk, his teeth flash against her tongue and mouth.

He lifted her a little and thrust up; she tossed her head back with a badly muffled shriek of delight and then bit her lip, wincing as the faucet assaulted her back.

"Mmm, yes," she muttered, her eyes rose to the ceiling, half-closed, hot water still making her blood race and her nerves scream. "Oh yes, Jethro, oh yes," her words escaped her breathlessly and she clenched her teeth, digging her heels into his back.

She squeezed her thighs around his waist and he fought against her, pulled back, and slammed back into her—a groan of satisfaction escaped his lips and she shrieked again. She flexed her fingers in her hair, tangling them and then sliding them out, searching for something to grasp that wasn't him. She felt like if she touched him she'd catch on fire.

He lowered his mouth to her neck and nipped her skin, sliding his tongue over her shoulder, following drops of water with his exploratory, tantalizing kiss. She stretched her arm out and tensed her muscles, tightly taking hold of the shower curtain rod—he clenched his teeth against her shoulder and groaned.

"Jenny," he mumbled into her skin, his hands now holding her so tightly it was almost bruising.

She lowered her head and pressed her lips to his temple, kissing what parts of his head she could reach. She bit the tip of his ear teasingly and nodded her head, pulling his hair and tangling her fingers up in the shower curtain near the rod.

"Harder, Jethro," she coaxed in a throaty purr. "I'm—I'm—" she broke off and shivered, her breath catching in her throat. A moan escaped her lips and she pressed a kiss to his temple again. "I'm going to come again either way," she managed to get out huskily.

The shower spray was really getting to her, as if his touch wasn't already enough.

He gripped the backs of her thighs tightly and complied; she arched her back to meet his thrusts to avoid being banged against the faucet too many times for comfort and he groaned again, grinding her name out through clenched teeth. She kept getting louder each time he drove into her and when he finally hit home just right she shuddered and pressed her open lips to his neck, losing her voice.

Her mind went white and blank, she forgot she was holding on to the shower rod, and she yanked her hand down to wrap around his shoulder—fracturing the rod and sending it tumbling to the floor, curtain and all. It hit Jethro's foot, knocked off his balance, and she slipped, her skin catching on the faucet behind her.

"Dammit," he swore roughly, meeting her eyes hazily. His hands slipped from her thighs to her hips and up her spine, searching for the injury, and she gasped when her feet found the flat tile floor of her shower; he stepped back and slipped out of her and it hurt; he held onto her waist almost desperately.

"Turn the water off," she said breathlessly, fighting the smile on her lips. He leaned against the shower wall and reached behind her to flip off the hot—well, cool now—water. Jenny dropped to her knees, slid her palms up his thighs. He groaned in disbelief and his hand automatically went to the crown of her head.

"Jen—" he started, but her mouth on him cut him off abruptly. "Christ, Jenny," he swore into his knuckles; she finished him off with her mouth, swallowed, and sat back.

She pushed her wet hair back and reached up to touch her lips, trying to stifle her laughter—for some reason, she felt it wasn't appropriate. This ranked in the top five of most intense sexual experiences she'd ever had and she'd broken her shower in the process. It felt like a moment that should be followed by starry-eyed gazing and instead she was kneeling in the shower giggling.

He reached out to offer her a hand to stand up, but instead she just shifted, still laughing into her palm, and leaned back against the shower, pulling the wet but warm towel closer to curl up in.

He stepped over her, navigated the curtain rod and curtain, and grabbed two dry towels, tossing one to her and throwing the other over his lap when he sat down on the closed toilet and watched her. His feet made a splashing noise in the water when he tapped them.

The laughing was not helping her to catch her breath; she bit her lip and drew her hand away and he held his hand out to her.

"C'mere, Jen," he said gruffly, his voice still a little husky. "Lemme see your back."

She took in a deep breath and leaned forward, grasping his hand and using it to help her stand. She almost slipped in the curtain and the towel and the slick floor, but he grabbed her knee and swung her closer, steadying her. She turned a little, holding the towel over her front, so he could examine injury. The pads of his fingers probed her lower back and she winced.

"How's it look, Doc?" she murmured playfully, wincing when he touched it again. She felt him press the edge of the towel into her skin.

"You're bleeding," he answered, perturbed.

She shrugged and tilted her head to look at him.

"Oh, it was worth it," she said, smirking. He lifted his eyes and met hers, smirking right back from around her hip. "How's your foot?" she asked, nudging the curtain rod a little with her own.

"I'll live," he deadpanned.

He leaned forward and rested his forehead on her back, his lips brushing against her spine. She bit her lower lip, letting him stay like that for a moment; his arm encircled her waist, his hand on her leg just above her knee, and he breathed in deeply.

Jenny looked around, shivering and hugging herself a little. It was cooling off rapidly in the bathroom—the soaked towel was doing nothing for warmth. It was a mess in here. She laughed again, a little uncertainly.

"Noemi is going to be scandalized," she muttered, almost to herself. She frowned. "Damn, this is going to be hell to fix."

"I'll fix it," he volunteered, speaking into her back, the words vibrating up her skin and through her veins.

"Mmm," Jenny murmured appreciatively. She turned, shaking loose his grip, and arched an eyebrow. "My heat's been screwing up lately, you think you can tackle that?" she teased lightly.

He just shrugged.

"Yeah," he answered, and she parted her lips—surprised, but then again, maybe she shouldn't be. If he could build a boat in his basement, it seemed to logically follow that he could repair her old heating system.

"Well, my hero," she drawled mockingly, cupping his face in her hands. He swatted her away playfully and she grinned, leaning forward. His hand spread protectively over the scratch on her back.

"_Senora_?"

"Yes, Noemi?" Jenny answered, tilting her head at Jethro, her eyes still locked on his.

The housekeeper's voice was muffled; Jenny could tell she was probably about ten feet away from the bathroom door out of respect for her employer's privacy.

"You okay, _Senora_? I hear bad noise."

Jenny blushed. Jethro snorted, and she slapped him lightly in the back of the head; he lunged forward and nipped at her stomach with his mouth, trying to yank her towel away from her.

"Yes," Jenny called, stifling a laugh. "Noemi, I'm fine," she answered. "Don't clean this bathroom today," she added, and heard Noemi answer in the affirmative and wander off.

Jethro continued to tug at her towel and she laughed louder, squealing when he reached out to tickle her.

"You're going to get me into trouble," Jenny hissed, punching him in the shoulder. She shook her finger in his face. "She was around when I was in pigtails, you know."

He reached up quickly and clutched her hair in both hands, smirking wickedly.

"Yeah? When do I get to see you in pigtails?"

She wrinkled her nose and pushed him away, resting her palms on his shoulders. She opened her mouth to retort and then forgot what she was going to say. He reached for her waist and pulled her closer in the silence, pulling her down onto his lap. She wrapped the wet towel around her torso and he leaned in to kiss her suddenly, capturing her mouth in a long, deep kiss.

She licked her lips and rested her forehead against his when it was over. He reached up and pushed her hair back, his palm resting against her cheek.

She sighed, a frown finding her lips, and tilted her head a little. She wrinkled her brow against his.

"Work," she said distastefully.

"Wouldn't want to be late, Probie," he growled, arching a brow. She smiled, tilting her chin up and lowering her lashes seductively.

"Ooh, I like it when you boss me around," she purred at him, sliding her hands from his shoulders to his neck.

He kissed her again. She leaned into the kiss, pressing her body against him, and thanked a God who had probably long ago turned her back on her that he'd come over so early that they had a decent amount of time.

"We've gotta get ready, Jen," he muttered into her mouth.

She groaned half-heartedly, well aware it was true. He shifted as if to stand up, but she gripped his neck again, fingertips slipping into his hair. She shook her head slightly.

"Not yet," she murmured intently, holding his gaze. "You're mine right now," she asserted softly, determined to make it true. The towel between them slipped, and it was her skin against his again, the water slowly drying. Goosebumps rose over her flesh and she ignored it, just snuggling closer to him. He slid his hand back through her hair, the fingers of his other hand running soothingly over the cut on her back.

She felt incredibly vulnerable.

He leaned closer and kissed her neck, lips brushing gently. She looked up, savoring the morning, the closeness, this weird strengthening connection they had that was probably going to end up being a rope that hung them both.

"Jethro," she said in his ear, her voice low and like butterscotch, intimate and possessive—greedy almost. "I haven't been fucked like that," she paused, her lips hitting his skin, tantalizing. She shrugged. "Ever," she decided, her words raw.

He knotted his fingers in her hair. He seemed to let her words sink in, and then his eyes roamed over her, taking her in, memorizing the way she looked right now. She had the overwhelming feeling that he was struggling with something. She tossed her head to loosen his grip and her hair fell messily over her shoulders.

"You look damn good, Jen," he said, almost reverently—almost covetously; almost regretfully. There was a look in his stony eyes like he couldn't believe what a stupid mistake he'd made in meeting her at the wrong time.

For the first time, she felt like he might be having as hard a time as she was pretending this wasn't just a casual affair.

* * *

She should have learned by now that a good morning did not necessarily mean a good day; both her job and her relationship with Gibbs were so volatile that the tide could turn instantly—and turn it did, right about the time they arrived at work and he discovered the barista from her coffee shop—that she'd made him try—had put raspberry in his coffee by accident.

Which he immediately decided was _her_ fault.

Burley glared at her when Gibbs chucked his full coffee into the trash with a loud, sloshy thud. She lifted her own coffee to her lips and ignored his glare, nonchalantly pretending she had no idea what Gibbs' problem was.

"Gibbs, the guy from Army CID is here," Decker announced, walking in to the bullpen with a handful of files. "He says he doesn't have much time."

"He'll make some damn time," Gibbs growled, and Decker raised his brows, glancing at Jenny and Burley to see what was going on. Burley mimed Gibbs having no coffee—and _Decker_ glared at Jenny too.

She narrowed her eyes and stormed over to her desk, pissed that they were blaming her for Gibbs' prissy coffee requirements. She set her coffee on her desk and threw her purse down, opening some drawers and minding her own business.

"You ready to interview him?" Decker asked.

Gibbs just marched over, grabbed the file from Decker, and stormed off in the direction of the interview rooms, where Army CID's highest-ranking investigator was waiting.

"Poor man's up for a rough morning," Decker muttered, whistling and sitting down slowly.

"Eh," Burley said, waving his hand uncaringly. "He's an Army guy, he can take a Marine."

"That's an argument you never want to bring up around an Army guy _or_ a Marine," Jenny remarked seriously, giving them both a warning look. She knew from personal experience that the rivalry between the two branches that considered themselves the most badass was wicked; she'd been raised around it.

"What's with Gibbs?" Decker asked, tilting his head at Jenny.

"I don't know," she answered pointedly.

Burley and Decker gave each other looks.

"Yeah, you do," the corrected simultaneously. Burley shot her a grin; Decker snickered and stared at her pointedly.

"What makes you think so?" she retorted.

"You're not wearing lipstick," Decker said seriously.

"You forget your lipstick on the mornings you come in with him," Burley added logically. "Therefore, Deck and I have deduced that when you have no lipstick—"

"—those are the mornings you're _with_ Gibbs," Decker finished matter-of-factly.

She stared at the two miscreants and then frowned and opened her desk drawer, drawing out a compact mirror and searching around for a spare lipstick. It was a boring, lukewarm beige colour that she kept here, and she made a face at it as she pulled off the top and applied it. She compressed her lips, pursed them, and then snapped the mirror shut sassily.

"You know, Jethro just gets so bratty if I don't pick all of the purple rainbows out of his Lucky Charms," she deadpanned.

Decker snickered. Burley's phone rang and he picked it up, answering for Gibbs. After a moment, he hung up and snapped a few times in Jenny's direction.

"Hey, go grab the reports CID needs from Miller," Burley said, standing up. "Deck, we've gotta get the autopsy report."

Jenny stood up, following the directive, and stole out of the bullpen more quickly than them.

She heard Burley whispering to Decker:

"Hey, Will, you really think Gibbs eats Lucky Charms-?"

* * *

"Gibbs isn't gonna be happy," Decker said, standing across Jenny outside the interview room.

"That's an understatement," she agreed dryly. "Having a high profile military case snatched out from under him by the Army?" she scoffed and shook her head. "I'm surprised he's given up so quickly."

Decker pointed at the door before he reached for the handle.

"Morrow twisted his arm," Decker mouthed, and knocked lightly, and opened the door.

Gibbs looked over immediately, his eyes blank. Morrow was indeed in the room, but CID guy was nowhere to be found.

"Shepard, Decker," Morrow greeted.

"Mornin', Sir," Decker greeted. Jenny just nodded cordially, giving him a small smile.

"Our guy had to run and take a call," Morrow said pleasantly.

"We're handing the case over, then?" Decker asked.

"Gift-wrapped," Gibbs growled bitterly. Morrow gave a tight smile.

"We're considering it, once we've discussed all the issues," he placated. "Ah, Colonel Locke, here we've got Agents Decker and Shepard with some more briefings."

The colonel, busy hanging up his cell phone and getting back to his seat, nodded cordially. He had salt-and-pepper greying hair and a lined, tough face, but something about him—Jenny squinted, and when he sat down and leaned back to scrutinize the newcomers, she recognized him.

And he recognized her.

"JM?" he asked, widening his eyes curiously.

She winced immediately at the old nickname her father used to call her. Decker and Gibbs turned and looked at her sharply, and she nodded, folding the file she had close to her chest.

"Jesus, that's you, little JM?" Colonel Locke asked, standing up. He rubbed his jaw and grinned, the smile making a whole hell of a difference on his stern face and reminding her of when she'd seen him often conversing with her father. "I'll be damned."

He extended his hand and she shook it.

"It's nice to see you again, sir," she greeted tightly, inclining her head respectfully.

"Honey, last time I saw you, you were in braces," the Colonel laughed. She saw Decker smirk, and she came forward, laying her file down on the table. She gave her father's old friend another uncomfortable smile.

"JM?" Decker asked, lifting an eyebrow with a grin.

"Ah, sorry, that's what her old man used to call her," Locke said, waving his hand. "So, Shepard's little girl grew up to be a fed. He'd roll in his grave if he knew you were workin' for a jarhead."

"Colonel Locke," Jenny said pleasantly, flashing a smile.

He ignored her a big, and shook his head a little dejectedly.

"Never did think it was right, the way he went out," he went on loudly, and Jenny's eyes flashed at him in warning. She looked over at Morrow, begging him silently to step in, and pointedly ignored Jethro's piercing glare. "Don't get me wrong, JM, I never believed all they said, though some of his doings looked mighty suspicious—still, I reckon he should have had a place in Arlington—"

"Kevin," Jenny broke in sharply, getting his attention by using the first name she'd known him as way back in her preteen days. She gave him an icy look. "Now really isn't the time for catching up."

It was too late, though, her reaction had given something of herself away; Decker was looking at her in curious surprise, and Gibbs glare was even more…piercing. She straightened up, rubbed her forehead, and pushed her file towards Decker.

"Burley needs assistance in autopsy," she lied, eager for a way out. She set her shoulders and nodded politely to Colonel Locke, still ignoring Gibbs. "My father would be proud of what I'm doing," she said to him firmly, and excused herself quickly from the room.

The moment the door shut behind her, she stepped aside and leaned against the wall stiffly, starting in front of her. There in front of everyone, Colonel Locke had almost put the unfortunate, painful facts of her father's disgrace in the limelight. She swallowed hard and pushed off the wall.

She decided to escape for a moment, and she went as far as to leave the building—and get Gibbs a cup of coffee that might distract him enough so that he'd leave her alone about it.

* * *

Having just had a case ripped out from underneath him—a case his team had put a lot of sweat into over the last week—Gibbs was less than pleasant as he listened to Ducky drone on about the body they'd gotten yesterday.

Dr. Mallard had just gotten to the autopsy, and as Gibbs was sans coffee this morning and Shepard had disappeared after the little soap opera in the interview room twenty minutes ago, he had no patience for Ducky's current tale of Scottish horror.

"What's the cause of death, Duck?" Gibbs interrupted irritably.

"I'm not quite sure of that, Jethro, you've barged in on me as I've only just started," Ducky placated patiently, glancing up through his protective mask and arching an eyebrow. "It appears that the sailor died of a massive heart attack, but as he's rather young and has no family history of heart disease, I'm searching for other indicators."

Gibbs prowled around the table, scowling. He didn't know why he'd just listened to Ducky rattle on about some macabre murder in Edinburgh a thousand years ago if there was no finding out cause of death in the endgame.

"If it's of any interest to you," Ducky spoke up, gesturing towards the sailor's modestly covered groin. "He's got lipstick in rather unmentionable places."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes at the sailor's covered privates, deciding he'd take Ducky's word on that one. He looked critically at the dead marine's mostly naked lower half, filing away the salacious lipstick information, and then he turned his head and looked at his old friend sharply.

"Duck," he asked curtly. "What's a Lilith?"

The medical examiner paused, tilting his head curiously. He glanced up again, pausing in his poking around in the abdominal cavity, and pursed his lips.

"A woman's name, generally," he mused, arching a brow at Gibbs. "I'm not sure what you're referring to."

"If there's a lipstick named _Lilith_, whatsit mean?" Gibbs clarified gruffly.

"Ah," Ducky remarked thoughtfully. "A lipstick shade, eh?" he repeated thoughtfully, and turned back to his work confidently. "In that case I'd be willing to bet it's a biblical reference."

"Biblical?" Gibbs snorted.

He didn't have the bible memorized, but he was pretty sure he didn't remember any damn _Lilith._

Ducky nodded sagely.

"Lilith," he said, enunciating the name whimsically, "is said to have been Adam's strong-willed first wife."

Gibbs stared at Ducky.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said skeptically.

Ducky chuckled.

"It's quite the interesting theory—or myth, I suppose," he went on delicately. "It is said Lilith was created from the same dust as Adam, and thus equal to him in all things, and when the time came to copulate, Lilith refused to lie beneath Adam, and eventually abandoned him in search of her own will. That, naturally, is when Eve was created—from Adam's rib, so she could not be equal, and woman then falls into a role of subservience to man."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes again, looking at Ducky's bowed head intently, letting the words sink in.

"Copulate?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Ducky looked up and smirked.

"Sex, Jethro," he said bluntly. "Lilith argued that she should be, to put it indelicately, on top."

"Ah," Gibbs said.

He smirked. Figured Jen had lipstick named after some stubborn biblical feminist.

"What colour hair did this _Lilith_ have?" Gibbs asked dryly.

"Think she might be your type?" Ducky mused, looking back down mildly.

"Traditionally, blonde."

Gibbs turned around sharply; he hadn't even heard the doors to autopsy open, and yet there stood Jenny, two large Styrofoam cups of coffee in her hands. She raised her eyebrow at him and lifted one hand, waving the cup at him a bit.

"Think you can play nice now?" she asked, tapping the top of his coffee cup.

"That where you ran off to?" he asked, walking over and taking the proffered cup with a cordial nod.

She watched him take a long drink and hugged her cup with her palms, saying nothing. Gibbs pointed her towards the elevator, nudging her foot a little to turn her, and when she swiveled the doors swung open. She slipped out and called for the elevator, tapping her foot.

"Hey, Duck," Gibbs called, halfway out the door, "whatever happened to Lilith?" he asked mockingly, still a little skeptical of the legend.

"She left Adam," Ducky answered vaguely. "She became a powerful adversary, and she haunted mankind forever."

Gibbs looked at Jenny and she cocked her head at him, pressing her lips thoughtfully to the top of her coffee.

"It's better than unleashing original sin on the entire innocent human race," she remarked derisively, taking a stab at sweet little Eve just as the elevator _pinged_! its arrival.

* * *

She should have been prepared for him to pull his classic elevator stunt and yet she wasn't; she thought he was effectively distracted by the coffee—or too pissed to be probing. He reached forward and slapped down the emergency stop button; the elevator shuddered to a halt, the lights dimmed, and she widened her eyes in surprise only slightly and stared directly ahead of her at the doors, her arms folded in front of her, coffee cup hovering in her hand near her chin.

He scrutinized her for a few seconds, and they were long seconds, during which his glare burned her skin.

"You have a past with Colonel Locke," Gibbs observed.

"I do not have a _past_ with Colonel Locke," she said tightly, rolling her eyes.

"He called you a nickname."

"JM," Jenny said. "They're my initials. A few of my father's colleagues called me that," she said curtly, shifting her weight. She turned and nodded towards the emergency switch button. "You're going to break this elevator one day, Gibbs, and it's going to cost this agency an arm and a leg to fix."

"Didn't know I was callin' you _Director_ now, Jen," he retorted sarcastically.

"I was using misdirection to shut you up," she responded bluntly.

"Didn't work," he said gruffly. "What'd he mean about your father?" Gibbs asked.

Jenny didn't answer. She stepped forward and reached for the emergency stop, her fingers brushing it before her intercepted her hand. She struggled a bit, and sloshed her coffee over her knuckles, hissing when it burned. She and abandoned her pursuit of the stop button to suck soothingly on her scalded skin.

"It's none of your business, Gibbs."

"Looked like it upset you."

"You're infuriating, Jethro, you know that?" she broke out aggressively, turning towards him. She pulled her knuckles away from her mouth, winced, and tried to ignore the stinging burn. "I don't ask you to spill your guts, so why the hell are you always so interested in mine?" she demanded.

He narrowed his eyes intently, tilting his head at her. He wasn't sure how to answer without sounding horribly old-fashioned and condescending; he wanted to know because he wanted to know how best to keep her from feeling pain.

"You aren't entitled to the details of my past anymore than I'm entitled to yours."

"It's a sore subject, Jenny," he growled pointedly. "You get evasive and hostile. You're scared of somethin'."

"I am scared of nothing," she retorted nastily, and stepped closer, meeting his eyes harshly. "You want to talk about evasive, Jethro, then talk about your first wife," she snapped out between clenched teeth, finally letting the insecurity of that inconsistency burst to the surface.

"My first _wife_?" he shot back, obviously taken aback.

She nodded curtly.

"I _know_ Ducky told me her name was Stacy," Jenny said tightly, narrowing her eyes. "You said _Shannon,"_ she paused and waited, searching his unreadable expression intently. "Which is it?" she demanded, sarcasm creeping into her voice. "Or was Stacy who you were sleeping with while you were married to Shannon?"

"No," he barked, and startled her with the volume and force of his denial. He turned and looked down at her bitterly, his eyes cold. He gestured between them stiffly. "_This_ isn't a habit," he swore sincerely.

She believed him.

"I was married to Stacy," he said hoarsely. "_Shannon_ was my first wife."

He couldn't let her think he had ever been unfaithful to his Shannon. He said the words before he thought it through.

She blinked, letting the words sink in, and her eyes flashed.

"She—Diane—she's your _third_ wife?" Jenny asked, feeling as if she'd had the rug yanked from under her. "You—you're," she tried to find words. "You aren't good at the whole marriage thing, are you?" she spat bitingly. "Ducky didn't mention—"

"Ducky doesn't _know_," Gibbs growled.

She blinked again, a bad taste in her mouth.

"What's so secret about Shannon, Jethro?" she asked quietly.

He looked at her bitterly, his jaw set tightly. He turned away from her and violently flicked on the elevator. The lights flashed back on and the machine revved up with a jolt. He started straight ahead for what felt like an eternity, and then his knuckles turned white as he clutched his coffee tighter.

"She died," he answered, his words empty, raw, and hollow.

Jenny's breath caught painfully in her lungs.

"Jethro—" she said, but the elevator doors had opened and he stalked off, maybe without even hearing her.

She stood there, dazed and winded, and then stepped off, lifting her knuckles to her lips again to try and soothe the burn. Her coffee spilled more as she sped up to keep up with him, and she swore under her breath—burned again.

Recklessly, she grabbed his elbow and yanked him to a stop, right in front of Decker, and she looked him in the eye, her lashes quivering. He met her eyes heavily and she didn't know what to do; she couldn't wrap her arms around him—they were at work and—and—

"Boss," Decker said, clearing his throat uncomfortably and pointing towards Gibbs' desk.

Jenny looked and snatched her hand away from Gibbs as if she'd been electrocuted, because sitting there at his desk, with her head bowed into her palm, was his wife.

* * *

She immediately turned on her heel and walked straight to her desk, focusing almost maniacally on dealing with the coffee burns on her hand. Burley was standing at the filing cabinet looking awkward, his back turned to Gibbs' desk.

"She's been waiting for him for ten minutes," Burley muttered in a barely audible voice.

Jenny ignored him and pushed her chair back, standing behind her desk and leaning down to look through some files.

Diane stood up as Gibbs approached his desk, holding her purse close to her chest.

"What're you doin' here, Di—" the way he stopped caught all of their attention, but of course they all pretended to be oblivious.

"Where were you this morning?" she asked softly, and then lowered her voice even more.

Jenny watched through her eyelashes as his wife continued too quietly to be heard, fumbled for her keys, and then leaned heavily on his desk. He said something back in a much nicer undertone, and she nodded. He held out his palm, and she shakily reached out and shoved her car keys into his hand.

"C'mon, Annie," she heard him say quietly in his gruff tone, and then he was leading her away with his hand on her lower back. He shot a look at Decker and nodded curtly at his desk. "Take over," he ordered.

Decker nodded.

"Everything okay, Boss?" Burley asked loudly, only to be ignored.

Gibbs disappeared with Diane to the elevator, and the team was left in the bullpen, blindsided by what had happened.

"What's going on?" Burley asked.

"Her eyes were so red," Decker said uncertainly. "Her brother has AIDS," he added warily.

"Oh," Burley said, making a face.

Jenny set her coffee cup down loudly. Her muscles were hurting her all over—hurting from the effort it was taking to keep from crying or shaking or screaming or reacting at _all_. She sat down and leaned forward, shoving her face into her hands and then breathing in deeply.

She cleared her throat.

"Stan," she said. He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "I'll need a ride home," she said bluntly.

"I got you, Shepard," he said, shrugging.

"Let's get to work, guys," Decker said, standing up.

He transferred himself to Gibbs' desk, and took over easily.

* * *

Gibbs kept a steady hand on the wheel as he drove Diane's BMW home for her. She sat next to him silently, occasionally taking deep, shaking breaths and reaching up to wipe tears from her eyes before they could fall.

"He just couldn't fight it off," she said hoarsely. "The pneumonia. Amanda said it was going to get him but I just thought…" she trailed off and shook her head, wiping her eyes again.

"When?" Gibbs asked.

"Around three this morning," Diane answered, taking another deep breath. She kept wiping at her eyes, and he glanced sideways at her. Her nails were going to cut her skin if she wasn't careful. "Mom called around six. I thought you were in the basement, but," she wiped her eye again and he reached over and took her hand.

"Diane, you cut your face," he told her gently, squeezing her fingers in his.

"Why did you leave so _early_?" she asked in a small voice.

"Case," he answered vaguely.

Diane touched below her eye delicately.

"Am I bleeding?"

"A little."

She closed her eyes and sank down in her chair, shoulders slumping. She held her eyes closed tightly, the salt from her suppressed tears stinging the little cut beneath her lashes. She was silent that way until he pulled into the driveway and turned off the car. He held up her keys and rubbed her hand gently, tilting his head at her.

"I didn't wreck your car," he noted, teasing her a little.

She rolled her head towards him on the headrest and opened her eyes, smiling weakly. He smiled back and then got out of the car, walking around quickly to open her door for her. She sat, clutching her purse and staring in front of her. She bit her lip and then got out of the car, shutting the door herself. He followed her inside the house, his hands in his pockets.

* * *

"When's the funeral?" Gibbs asked, as Diane put her things on the kitchen counter and poured herself a glass of wine.

She rubbed her forehead tiredly and sighed, her free hand gripping the wine bottle.

"Saturday," she answered. "The wake is Friday," she added, lifting her wine to her lips. "We're flying out tomorrow morning."

"We?" he asked before he could stop himself, unintentionally sounding curt and surprised.

She swallowed her wine and lowered the glass to the counter, both hands forming a sort of triangle around the base.

"Leroy," she said carefully, pronouncing his name clearly. "You have to go."

"I've got work, Diane," he argued tensely. He didn't know why he was clashing with her on this; he knew it was his responsibility to go with her to the funeral. "My team's got unopened cases. I can't just take a vacation without warning."

"This isn't a vacation you _son of a bitch_," she lashed out at him viciously, her eyes flashing as she turned to look at him.

He could have kicked himself for saying something so awful, and it showed in his face—which must have calmed her down.

"My brother died," she said hollowly. "You can take a few days off."

"I've got a Probie, Diane. Decker can't be responsible if Shepard-"

"Don't give me that _bullshit_ about _Shepard_!" Diane shouted, closing her eyes again. She tightened her jaw and her lip shook. "It's been half a year. She's capable and you know it—you can see it in her eyes how confident that little vixen is," Diane went on poisonously, taking a generous gulp of wine at the end of her rant. "You're coming to Seattle. I don't care if it's just for show. It's bad enough that Rusty's dead—I don't want my mother telling me she told me so, too."

Gibbs looked at her silently. He leaned against the wall, hands still in his pockets. He watched her without saying anything. The thought of being around a grieving family terrified him, but he wasn't going to tell her that. It was pathetic how debilitating he found the idea of facing pain and suffering like that, but it was something he just couldn't handle. It hurt too much. It reminded him too much of the looks he'd gotten at his girls' funeral.

"Leroy, I need you to be there," she said hoarsely, staring into the dark red wine in her glass mechanically. "I really need you…Lee-roy," her voice hiccupped and she stopped talking, her face crumpling.

He looked at her reluctantly and guiltily, sorry for her pain and yet almost physically unable to help her. Still, he forced himself to push away from the wall and walk forward. He took the wine away from her and put his hands on her shoulders gently. She turned towards him and practically threw herself against his chest, grabbing the collar of his shirt tightly, her forehead shoved into his shoulder.

He touched her cheek, his thumb running over the scratch she'd given herself trying to keep from crying, and she burst into tears, sobbing it all out into his chest in the kitchen—it was taking everything in him not to get far away from this situation, somewhere he didn't have to look death in it's awful, haunting face.

* * *

Decker flexed his arm dramatically and then chucked a paper airplane across the room at Burley, snickering like a schoolboy when it hit the other agent square in the nose.

"Gibbs is out until Tuesday," he announced smugly. "Thus, I am Gibbs until Tuesday."

"Thus?" snorted Jenny, cocking an eyebrow.

"Sir, I served with Leroy Jethro Gibbs. I knew Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Leroy Jethro Gibbs was a friend of mine. Sir, _you_ are no Leroy Jethro Gibbs!" Burley mocked, standing up dramatically and beautifully giving tribute to the politically infamous quote.

"Yeah, well, you ain't no friend of Gibbs'," Decker snorted. "Gibbs doesn't have friends."

"_She's_ his friend," Burley said, pointing at Jenny dramatically.

"Shhh, she's his _special_ friend," Decker retorted, pretending to whisper.

Jenny glared at them from behind the magazine she'd been reading for the past two hours while they hung out to see if any last minute cases would come in.

"You prefer 'Mistress' or 'Work Wife'?" Burley asked seriously.

Jenny rolled up the magazine and chucked it at him.

"Hey!" he whined in protest.

"Fuck you, Steve, I'm taking the metro home," she said loftily, arching a brow at him sassily.

"You are _not_," Decker protested; at the same time Burley made an outraged noise.

She glared at them.

"Who's gonna stop me?" she challenged.

It was a little ominous to see them both stand up and slowly start prowling towards her desk. She swept her feet down to the floor and backed her chair up, standing in order to be on their level and assuming a sort of defensive position.

"Yeah, you think we're gonna let you take _this_ metro home at night? There's scary bastards on the trains down here!"

"Don't worry; I won't let them rape you," Jenny deadpanned, glaring at Decker suspiciously.

Burley snickered, and just shook his head.

"Not a chance, Shep," he said gallantly. "I'm giving you a nice, safe, ride in my rad car, _just_ like I said I would." The way he drew out the words tauntingly was definitely suspect; she narrowed her eyes and looked at both of her colleagues.

Well, at least her mind was taken off the day's drama with Jethro.

"Did you say _rad_?" she asked, furrowing her brow and giving him a weird look.

"Shepard his car is _bitchin'_," Decker assured her. "It even gets _Miller_ hot."

"Oh, got yourself a fancy car, do you?" Jenny asked smoothly, smiling wickedly. "You know what they say about men who flaunt their cars."

"What's that?" Burley scoffed.

"Small dick," Jenny fired back.

"Grab her, Deck," Burley ordered, pointing at her valiantly.

Decker lunged forward to snatch Jenny up and throw her over his shoulder. Because he surprised her, he was able to drag her about three feet before she managed to catch her bearings and spin away, tripping to her knees. She laughed loudly, completely lost as to why they were being so playful.

"You're letting her get away!" Burley roared, and she heard Decker protest with a laugh before Burley dived after her as she was crawling away. He grabbed her ankle, and then she was on her back in the bullpen, kicking fiercely at Stan as he tried to conquer her.

"My, my, when the cat's away the mice really do play," Margaret walked into the bullpen, pulling on a light jacket and peering down at Jenny with amusement. Burley released her and leapt up, pretending to salute Miller in a very cheesy manner.

"Gibbs is really more of a bear, Mags," he said seriously.

"Mmm, no," Jenny disagreed, looking up at Burley from her back. She gave him a mean look, well aware she was about to over-share and probably make him uncomfortable for days. "He's a tiger," she revealed, and then made a clawing motion and purred in the back of her throat.

_"No,_ Shepard, _stop."_

"Don't ever do that again."

Jenny laughed and sat up, pushing her hair back. She blew air out threw her lips and then pushed herself up off the floor gracefully, folding her arms and giving her colleagues a cool look.

"What's with the rough housing?" she demanded.

"S'fun," Decker answered. "Gibbs is gone," he added. "It's like having a substitute."

"He'll have us do write offs when he gets back, then," Jenny said solemnly. "After he's spent nearly a week holed up with his wife and his mother-in-law and he finds out we're all goofing off, oooh!" She fanned herself as if stressed thinking about it. "We're gonna get it."

"Uh, yeah," snickered Burley. "We're gonna get it, but you're gonna get it way differently than me 'n' Deck are—"

"Alright," Margaret interrupted, holding her hands up. "Let's cool it with those jokes before we accidentally go too far," she requested logically. She slipped her hands into her jacket pocket and looked around expectantly.

Jenny noticed her look, and lifted her brows.

"I can take the metro with Will if you're goin' with Stan," she said to Margaret.

Margaret smirked at her, and then looked between Decker and Burley.

"She doesn't know?"

"Well, it was a relatively new development," Decker said, a grin breaking over his face.

"Yeah, I mean, we came up with it after Gibbs' left, 'cause otherwise—"

"What?" Jenny asked, narrowing her eyes. She looked around sharply. "What's going on?"

Burley reached over and lightly punched her in the shoulder, a friendly gesture that made her smile, albeit uncertainly.

"We're takin' you out, Shepard," he said proudly.

"Damn straight, Red," Decker agreed. "You didn't think you could slip your birthday by us, did ya?"

She bit her lip and smiled, parting her lips in amusement. She didn't say anything, just smirked appreciatively.

Her night suddenly looked infinitely better.

* * *

Jenny braced herself as she knocked back a shot of tequila, slammed the shot glass upside down on the bar, and sucked the juice out of the lime in her hand, completing the actions in under six seconds and beating both Burley and Decker to the punch.

"Dammit!" swore Burley hoarsely, while Decker actually gave way to feeble coughing, and slammed his shot glass down last.

"Are you _coughing_?" asked Jenny in disbelief. Margaret burst into laughter—a rarity for the stoic scientist—and Jenny started to laugh when she did.

"_Jesus_, Deck!" whined Burley, slapping his colleague on the back. "It's bad enough the _women_ are beating us—you gotta start _coughing_ like a freshman sorority girl?"

"I haven't _done_ shots since freshman year!" Decker bitched.

"Come on, man, that was like ten years ago. You've done shots since then."

"Uh, not really since, er, _that_…then," Decker mumbled.

"What was so traumatic involving shots in your freshman year?" Jenny asked curiously, blinking away the inebriated haze of the shots she'd had and cocking her head at Will with interest.

"I don't want to talk about it—know what? Let's do another round," Decker blustered, clearly attempting to distract them. "Let's do one for Gibbs, poor bastard," he said, perking up a little.

"Yeah, stuck with all his in-laws for what, a week? Buddy deserves a shot," Burley agreed, opening his mouth to call the bartender.

"Did he just call Gibbs '_buddy'_?" Margaret asked in a low, amused voice, leaning over to Jenny. The redhead raised her brows and just nodded, eyeing Burley good-naturedly. She, for one, was highly entertained by Burley's relaxed, much more friendly and much less insecure brand of intoxication.

"Hey, uh, 'nother 'round of reposado—"

"Huh-uh, no," Jenny interrupted, whipping around. "You can't shoot _tequila_ in Gibbs' name."

Decker punched Burley in the shoulder, looking at him like he was mad, and Burley gave them a shrug and a bewildered look.

"I don't know what Gibbs drinks, some kind'ah whiskey," he said.

The bartender glared at Burley and started to turn away. Jenny rolled her eyes and leaned forward, batting her eyelashes to get back on the disgruntled bartender's good side—he didn't seem to like being called over to watch them deliberate. Resting her arms on the bar and arching forward, she gave him a _bit_ of a view down her shirt and tapped her index finger on the bar.

"A round of Wild Turkey, neat," she said confidently, and then flashed a smile and held up two fingers. "Double mine," she said.

Burley whistled and Decker grabbed her shoulders, squeezing like he was preparing her for a round of boxing—or something.

"Tryin' to show us up, Shepard?" he asked, and she shook her head, straightening up and turning around.

"I'm taking Gibbs' for 'im," she said.

"Who voted you Boss man's proxy?" Burley asked.

"My apologies, Stan, I wasn't aware you wanted to dedicate a _swallow_ to Gibbs."

"_Whoa_," Burley said, making a distasteful face at her and turning to start handing out the shots the bartender had delivered. "When you put it that way, Probie," he said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

She accepted her double shot from him with a wicked grin and raised her hand.

"To Gibbs," Decker said in a tone of mock solemnity, "who has a mother-in-law."

"Enough said," Margaret said wryly, and they all clinked glasses—and Jenny grinned briefly at the boys before she braced herself again and threw this double shot back.

She already knew Margaret drank whiskey and handled it fine—but if Decker couldn't take tequila, this was going to knock him on his _ass_. He didn't disappoint her; he started coughing almost immediately and pushed his shot glass onto the bar; he bent over and grabbed his knees, shaking his head like a surprised dog.

"Son of a bitch," he said hoarsely.

Burley had the back of his hand pressed to his mouth and his forehead was winkled a bit; he was glaring at Margaret. She just smiled sweetly, licked her lips, and gave the empty glass a nod of approval.

Jenny's throat stung and her eyes burned but the bourbon was _good; _she'd been taught how to appreciate it.

"Ugh," Burley said, making a face. "We're never gonna hold out own against 'em, Deck, Maggie is some sort of _robot_ and Shepard's been trained by Gibbs," he said, conceding victory.

Jenny didn't miss the sharp look Margaret shot Burley for the robot comment, but it went unaddressed, and Burley ploughed on in a nonchalant way as Decker straightened up and made a face, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"Make the next round beer," Burley said.

"I hear that," agreed Decker, but Margaret held up her hands.

"No, I'm done," she said. "As designated driver in case anyone needs it, I'm switching to coke," she announced, and turned around, an eye roaming around for the bartender, "and ordering some food…" she trailed off.

"He's over there," Jenny said, pointing.

"Ah," Margaret said.

"I'll call 'im over," Burley said.

"No," Margaret said, shaking her head skeptically. "He's probably sick of you waving him over, besides," she broke off and raised an eyebrow. "I've half a mind to take him home tonight," she added, shooting a look at Jenny.

Jenny smiled and said nothing. Decker shrugged and gave Margaret his next drink order.

"I'm hittin' the head," he said. "Be back in a minute."

"You want anything, Jenny?" Margaret asked, turning back thoughtfully.

"Um," Jenny answered, tilting her head. "Yeah—I'll get it, though don't—"

"Shut up. It's your birthday. What do you want?" Margaret interrupted fiercely.

"Mozzarella sticks," Jenny answered, smirking, and Margaret fought her way down the bar to flirt with Mr. Moody Bartender. Jenny sat down on the bar stool behind her and leaned back, tilting her head at Burley sideways. She looked at him for a minute, and under her gaze, he shoved his hands into his pocket a little awkwardly and shifted his feet.

"Robot?" she quoted, lifting an eyebrow.

He laughed sarcastically and reached up and rubbed his jaw, shrugging it off. He came forward and leaned on the bar.

"She is," he said, disgruntled. "She's…the White Witch."

Jenny stared at him, and he shook his head, flushing a little.

"It's a kid's book, the, uh—Narnia—"

"I know," Jenny interrupted. "I've read them. Several times over. She's a scientist," Jenny corrected gently.

"So that makes her exempt from human emotion?" Burley shot back aggressively.

Jenny shrugged. She looked over at him, blowing a strand of hair out of her face.

"Maggie's always been up front about her romantic ideas," she said simply. "Or lack thereof."

"Yeah, I just," Burley started to agree, stopped, and frowned. "I guess I thought it was cute. Figured I'd change her mind."

Jenny nodded. She looked over towards Margaret, flirting with the bartender, and narrowed her eyes intently, thinking about it. Of course Stan thought he'd be the one who changed Margaret's opinions on life and love—

"We all think we're going to be the one to change someone," she murmured thoughtfully.

"You think you're gonna change Gibbs?" Burley asked.

Without thinking, she answered:

"Gibbs doesn't need to be changed."

She didn't know if she meant it, but it just _came out_ of her mouth. She turned her head and looked at Burley wryly again, and he narrowed his eyes and gave her a mild glare.

"You're not gonna be hung-over and sucker punch me again tomorrow, are you?" he asked dryly, unpleasantly remembering the last time she'd been at work after a night of drinking with Margaret. She bit her lip and shook her head, a little embarrassed, and a little amused.

"I don't intend to get that drunk," she said, and then sat up and reached over, hitting him lightly in the shoulder. "Don't call me a home wrecker this time," she warned seriously.

He shook his head, wrinkling his nose.

"Nah," he said, furrowing his brow. "Nah, I shouldn't have said that."

She nodded, and fell silent; they both fell silent, waiting for their colleagues to return—and after a few seconds, Jenny leaned forward in a slouch and twisted on her barstool; she reached up and pushed her hair back and looked at Stan sideways.

"Look, Burley," she began tightly. "I don't—I don't have to explain myself to you, my personal life isn't your business, but," she broke off and shrugged, "but for the record, I'm not…seeking personal gain by involving myself with," she took a deep breath, and finished: "Gibbs."

It was technically the first time she'd confirmed what was going on, and she didn't know how she felt about that—particularly since this was Stan _Burley_ she was talking to. This little heart-to-heart had to be chalked up to their alcohol consumption—and on top of that, probably a little bit of broken heart syndrome. In her case, the diagnosis of such a thing was preemptive; she knew it was coming her way. She wanted to be prepared.

"I know," Burley muttered. He scowled to himself and then glanced up at her, meeting her eyes. "Gibbs doesn't even control promotions, really. I dunno why I said that stuff to you. I was just," he shrugged again. "Jealous, okay? Deck and I bust our asses to impress Gibbs and you just…blew him away," Burley said bitterly. "And I know he was impressed with you before…whatever," he added, waving his hand vaguely.

"He respects you, Stan," Jenny said quietly.

Burley nodded. He knew that. He just wished it were a little more obvious when it came to Gibbs _showing_ it, because sometimes the way he treated Burley and Decker made them look totally incompetent in the eyes of other LEOs.

Burley straightened up and looked around. He sat back on the empty bar stool next to Shepard and leaned forward, imitating her posture. He tilted his head, looking past her at Margaret, and then made a to-hell-with-it-face and swiveled towards Jenny, throwing his hands up.

"She's a hell of a woman," he remarked, jerking his head towards Margaret. He smiled good-naturedly, though his eyes were a little sad.

"Did she break your heart, Stan?" Jenny asked quietly.

He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant.

"Yeah," he answered thickly, trying to blow it off as if it were nothing.

Jenny licked her lips and smirked, pursing her lips thoughtfully. In a moment of vulnerability that was no doubt provoked by alcohol and a good mood, she leaned back on the bar again and, without looking at him, said:

"Jethro's going to break mine."

Burley looked surprised. He leaned over, though, and nudged her with his shoulder, and raised his eyebrow at her wickedly.

"Hey, break his heart first," he advised coolly. "He could use some heartache."

She didn't tell Stan that she knew Gibbs had already had his heart broken beyond repair—because that wasn't Burley's concern, and because Decker came back and was bitching about there being no alcohol yet, and Margaret fought her way over to them and snapped at him playfully to hush while she handed out beers—and Jenny knocked her longneck bottle against Stan's and toasted him, silently and hollowly amused at how she'd gone from remembering Margaret's words—_you can't help who you fall in love with_—to taking Stan's to heart:

_Break his heart first._

* * *

He had no grounds to complain—and he should have known, naturally, that Rusty's wife would be swamped with arrangements and too busy with children and grief to accommodate Diane and himself—but when he found out they would be staying with Diane's parents for the duration of this undesirable visit, it was all he could do not to spring for the fanciest hotel room he could possibly find to bribe Diane with.

It wasn't Diane's father who irritated him—Ron Peterson was a laid back, _constantly_ preoccupied Navy-man-turned-environmental-lawyer whose most significant interaction with Gibbs had been to give him an approving nod while he polished his glasses and tell him that he was happy Diane was happy. It was Diane's mother, the formidable, high-strung, and demanding Teresa Peterson, who gave him cause for concern—the woman had never liked him, and he suspected she liked him even less now, considering Diane had probably been confiding in her about the state of their marriage.

He hadn't ever had much luck with mothers-in-law. With Joanne Fielding, he could never really pinpoint what went wrong—except perhaps they both loved Shannon too much—and with Stacy's mother, well, she'd been an animal rights activist who bore a distinct hatred for the military.

"Well, you know, Diane's room is pretty much the same as she left it before college," Teresa said in a clipped tone. She laid a handful of neatly folded blankets on a chair and surveyed the room with a critical eye. "We left it so for Abigail and Hannah," she added, referring to Rusty's two little girls.

"It's fine, Mom," Diane murmured, waving her hand nonchalantly.

"I _highly_ doubt you'll both fit in this bed," Teresa remarked logically, raising an eyebrow. "It's _barely_ a double."

Gibbs rubbed his jaw tensely.

"I'll sleep on the basement couch," he said, shrugging. He'd done it the last time they visited, before they were married, just to avoid any sort of weirdness.

"Leroy," sighed Diane, frustrated. "Don't do _that_."

"You need a good night's sleep," he said gruffly. "You're gonna make yourself sick," he added, giving her a knowing look. "S'no different than the basement, Diane, it's fine."

Her mother didn't seem to have any objection to him being a floor away from his wife. Teresa just cocked her eyebrow in a way that only Diane seemed to understand, and Diane rolled her eyes, leaning over and picking up the pile of blankets violently.

"Here," she said, shoving them into Gibbs' chest. "If you honestly think I'll sleep better _alone_," she lashed out in a hiss.

"Diane," he started, annoyed that she'd bring any sort of discord between them up right in front of her mother.

She shook her head curtly and cut him off.

"No, really, on second thought, Leroy? I'd rather not ruin the good memories I have in this room by letting you sleep in it," she snapped.

He narrowed his eyes, set his jaw, and adjusted the blankets in his hands. He gathered them under one arm and then moved forward, just for appearance's sake kissing her lightly on the temple and murmuring a stressed 'good-night' in her ear. He left her to bitch about him to her mother, and went down the hall to the basement.

He passed her father sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, and he said nothing—he had no words for a man grieving for a lost child. He only had empathy, and the horrible misfortune of being able to relate.

What he really dreaded in all of this was being asked '_how did you get through it?_' because he hadn't—he hadn't _ever_ gotten through it.

It drowned him every day, until he swore he'd never breathe painlessly again.

* * *

He sat stiffly on the couch, his elbows on his knees, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. He had no whiskey and not boat to occupy his mind; he was swallowed in this house full of mourning, and he'd give anything to be at work or—or with Jen right now, and all he had was suffocating silence in this basement.

Silence that was interrupted by pointed footsteps on the creaky old stairs.

Gibbs lifted his head and turned. He had a sinking feeling it was Teresa, and he was right. She was still dressed, probably unable to sleep, and she looked tense, tired, and edgy—understandable. It didn't matter how entitled she was to feel all of those things, he didn't want to face it. And he knew he was about to get an earful from Teresa on his wife's behalf.

"I hope you'll be comfortable, Leroy?" she asked, with a tone that indicated she felt the exact opposite. He hated being called _Leroy_ by anyone other than Diane, but he grit his teeth and just nodded calmly, making sure he didn't have any sort of scowl or aggressive expression on his face.

"Diane okay?" he asked gruffly.

"You should ask _her_ once in a while," Teresa answered icily.

Gibbs turned back around, reaching up to rub his forehead roughly. He ignored Teresa's comment and grit his teeth. He wasn't sure he could take this right now. He didn't want to be berated for his mistakes—but then again, who did? He figured on some level, Teresa had a right, but he'd rather take it from Diane. He didn't like the idea of getting told off like he was some errant teenager.

Diane was good at fighting her own battles. There was no need for Teresa Peterson to stick her nose where it didn't belong—and make things worse.

"You know, I was surprised when she told me you were coming, too," Teresa remarked. "What, with your busy _work_ schedule."

There was something in the way she spoke, the way she said 'work' that he hated—it was like she _knew_ what was going on behind Diane's back.

"She wanted me here," he answered shortly.

"Yes, well, that surprised me as well," Teresa retorted. He heard her footsteps as she came forward and stood looking at him from the side of the couch. "I cannot for the _life_ of me understand why she's still putting up with you."

"Take that up with her," he said in a sharp, warning voice.

"I don't appreciate your tone."

"Yeah? I don't appreciate gettin' lectured by you about my marriage," Gibbs retorted aggressively.

He turned, one hand braced on his thigh, and looked up at Teresa with an unreadable expression. She looked tired and distressed and there was a brittle, sad redness in her eyes. He grit his teeth together; he couldn't forget that she'd just lost her son—but he was in no state of mind to take being lashed out at.

"She isn't the same woman her father walked down the aisle!" Teresa burst out intensely, fixing a protective glare on Gibbs. "It's like you've broken her spirit. She's unsure of herself and she's blaming herself for your…your _problems_," Teresa spat the last word and narrowed her eyes at him. "And you, you treat my daughter like she's disposable property, _you_ don't _care_ about her."

Gibbs stared her down, his jaw set tightly. He didn't have much of a right or a reason to defend himself in the face of these words, but it was infuriating to have all of this rubbed in his face.

"Diane can make her own choices," Gibbs said coolly, narrowing his eyes.

"That doesn't mean she doesn't make bad ones," Teresa fired back. "She used to be so happy, Leroy. You're the worst choice she's ever made."

"Then why aren't you up there bitching at _her_, Teresa?" he demanded, straightening up.

He clenched his fist on his knee.

"My words fall on deaf ears," Teresa snapped.

"Take a hint," retorted Gibbs.

Diane's mother's eyes flashed dangerously.

"I know _you_ understand what it's like to want the very best for your child," she said hoarsely, her voice cracking. "Diane is _all_ I have left. I can't bear seeing her so unlike the person I taught her to be. You make her so weak—I wish you'd just leave her alone," Teresa broke off and held up her pointed finger at him. "And if I ever find out that she's so timid and afraid to leave you because you've been hitting her around—"

Gibbs stood abruptly, set off by the accusation. He took a pretty threatening step forward and looked down at Teresa lividly.

"I've _never_ laid a hand on her," he barked firmly.

"Mother."

"Resa."

Both Diane and her father interrupted at that moment, materializing on the stairs out of thin air, it seemed. Ron cleared his throat and folded his arms, looking at Teresa with some disappointment deep in his kind eyes; Diane flew down the stairs in a panic, looking as if she was going to throw herself in between them. She took her mother's elbow tightly.

"What are you _doing_?" she demanded, her words shaking. She shook her head. "He's never _hit_ me, Mom, why are you down here attacking him?"

Teresa opened her mouth.

"Diane," she said, touching Diane's hand. "Rusty doesn't like the way you act about him either!"

Diane's face softened painfully.

"Daddy?" she said, turning and beckoning to him. "Take her upstairs?"

Ron nodded and came to coax Teresa away. Gibbs looked after her until he felt Diane look at him, and then he sat back down and reached up and rubbed his forehead again. He assumed she'd go back upstairs and leave him alone, but then he really should have known better than to think that. Diane sat down next to him after a moment of looking at him, and she touched his knee and his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she muttered tiredly. "I didn't know she'd do that, Leroy."

He didn't answer for a minute.

"Not your fault," he grunted, shrugging.

She sighed tensely and shook her head, pushing her hair back.

"I love hearing about how pathetic my mother thinks I am," she said curtly, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead into her palm. She leaned back, stretching out her hands in her lap and looking at Gibbs. He looked down at his lap, arms on his knees again. "I'll talk to her in the morning," she murmured. "She'll leave you alone the rest of the time."

"Don't," he said gruffly.

"What?" Diane asked, surprised. "You'd rather her bully you?"

"Ah, she's not bullying, Diane," he answered, turning and looking back at her. He shrugged, and the movement looked like it pained every muscle in his body. "She's coping," he clarified.

Diane's lips formed an _O_ and she looked at him with silent comprehension. After a moment, she cleared her throat, and asked:

"How did you cope?"

He looked down at his hands.

_Married Stacy,_ he though. _Married you, slept with Jenny. _

"Didn't," he answered hollowly.

Diane leaned forward again and rested her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes and turned her nose and mouth into his bicep, snuggled up against him comfortably. He shifted slightly and looked over at her. She wasn't going to push him anymore, and that was a relief—but still, he guiltily wished she'd go back upstairs and be with her family.

He wanted to miss _his_ family alone.

* * *

Diane waited impatiently outside the car while Gibbs wrapped up a conversation with Decker, and when he finally hung up and got out, she shot him a nasty look.

"Could've gone on without me," he said, slamming the car door loudly.

"And let you take the opportunity to disappear?" she retorted, arching a brow. "Highly unlikely. I also don't want my family _talking_ if I walk in alone," she added, her expression turning cloudy. "God knows Mom's already badmouthing you."

Gibbs made a face and strolled around the car, offering her his arm mechanically—she took it, and they walked across the parking lot towards the funeral home, Diane's heels clicking heavily on the asphalt. He opened the door for her when they got up the stairs and she seemed to steel herself before going in.

"We're in Parlor 4," she murmured, squinting and looking around. He tapped her shoulder and pointed her to one of the last rooms on the right, and she nodded; there was only one other wake going on today, and neither were very loud affairs. "How's the team doing without you?"

Gibbs shrugged stiffly.

"Decker's fine," he said, and then rolled his eyes. "Shepard hit some old lady's dog with a car chasing a suspect," he growled, annoyed.

"Oh, she hurts puppies," Diane said coolly. "A legitimate reason not to like her, then," she added, almost to herself. She stopped outside of the entrance to the parlor and took a deep breath—and then she took a step back, her eyes wide suddenly. "Leroy," she said hoarsely. "My brother is dead."

He turned and looked at her, surprised, sliding his hands in his pockets. She swallowed and shook her head.

"I can't go in there."

He stepped closer, nodding his head.

"Yes, you can," he said simply.

"No," she disagreed. "I _can't_. What am I supposed to _say_?"

"Diane," he said, taking his hands from his pockets and putting them on her shoulders. "Don't say anything. Just go in there," he advised sagely.

She bit her lip.

"Hey, Aunt Diane," Amanda and Rusty's middle kid stuck his head out into the hall and looked at them shyly. "Come in 'cause Abigail wants to show you her dress 'n' also I think Mommy needs someone to hold Hannah-nanners," he said.

He sounded subdued, but okay, and Diane breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. She pushed her hair back and turned to the boy, putting on a gentle smile. She held out her hand for his, and Gibbs followed her in, bracing himself for the atmosphere he was about to walk into.

* * *

"It's nice to see you, Leroy," Amanda Peterson said, rising on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek politely. She touched the side of his face and grinned wryly. "You've gotten more silvery since I saw you last—should I take that to mean you're worth more?" she teased.

"Hardly," Diane said, cocking an eyebrow. She stepped forward and hugged her widowed sister-in-law for a second time, holding tightly before she stepped back and gave her a strong smile.

"Ah, well," Amanda winked at Gibbs. "Your wife is your harshest critic, you know," she remarked good-naturedly. She looked over at the closed coffin and smiled a sad, faraway smile. "I would've liked to see Rusty go grey. He'd have been a looker."

"He was a looker," Diane said gently.

"He certainly turned my head," Amanda laughed.

Diane managed another smile and looked around.

"Stephen said you needed someone to take Hannah for you," she remarked.

"Oh, your Dad has her," Amanda said, looking relieved. "He offered to feed her for me, so he's around here somewhere with a container full of apple slices. She's just so fussy, and she doesn't understand what's going on, really."

"How are the kids?" Diane asked, and Gibbs reached up uncomfortably to rub his forehead.

He felt stifled; he hated this formal outfit Diane had insisted he put on. There were too many morose, hurting people here; this kind of thing only amplified what he struggled _not_ to feel every day; it was hard enough to keep misery and heartache suppressed under the surface without being in a room full of people letting it all hang out.

He stepped away some, backing off to give Diane and her sister-in-law some time to talk about mundane things and reminisce. Amanda's son came scampering back over and hugged Diane's legs, standing close and listening to his mother talk about his deceased father with surprising grace. Amanda seemed okay; she was handling it better than he was—but he knew, deep down, she was feeling the same inescapable cataclysmic pain that he'd felt when he stood at Shannon and Kelly's graves, and he wanted to tell her that she was so lucky she still had her children.

But Leroy Jethro Gibbs didn't say things like that.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs found himself standing, stoically miserable, off to the side of his wife at this wake, wishing for _Jenny_, of all people—suddenly Jenny, instead of Shannon, and that was debilitating; it was confusing and he set his jaw tightly, his brow furrowing a little.

_He'd told Jenny about Shannon._

She was supposed to be his escape, his refuge from Diane's brand of prodding and therapy; Jenny was supposed to be relief, and he'd _told her about Shannon._

Gibbs rubbed his forehead again.

"Where's Abigail?" he heard Diane asked, concerned, and Amanda was looking around cursorily for her daughter, and then Teresa appeared, businesslike, holding the smallest child, and when Gibbs made eye contact with her—he touched Diane's shoulder and pretended he was going to get them drinks—because he needed a break from this to steel himself again.

This was madness; torture. He wanted to go home—to his basement, his bourbon, and his…mistress. Whatever he was calling Jenny, he wanted her.

He slipped out of the parlor and wandered up the hall to one of the empty rooms, trudging inside and looking around at the decorations that were mild and allegedly _soothing_. He hadn't been back stateside for Shannon and Kelly's wake, and that he was glad of. That was something his mother-in-law had probably handled beautifully. He found a chair in the corner and sat down, leaning forward on his knees and rubbing his temple roughly.

This timing was the worst—for Diane to be standing at his desk right after he blurted out the end of his marriage with Shannon to Jenny in the elevator? Forcing him to leave that unresolved—untouched. It wasn't as if he wanted to discuss it, but Jenny had a way of understanding, of looking at him and saying nothing and just _getting_ it. It had to have something to do with the increasingly mysterious drama that happened between her and her father, or perhaps it was just because she hated her mother so much and she was so used to being cold about her emotions. He related to her there.

It was easier to be cold than warm; ice was easily manipulated, where fire was destructive and terrifying.

He heard a noise and looked up warily. He tilted his head—suddenly he wasn't alone. The potted plastic plant near the front of the room was knocked over, and there was a little girl sitting there, looking startled and apologetic for tipping it over. He squinted; it had been a long time, but he was almost positive he recognized—

"Abigail?" he asked gruffly, sitting up a little.

She scrambled up and smoothed her dress out, struggling to right the plant. Without thinking, he got up to help her. She backed up and clasped her hands as she watched him fix it.

"Uncle Leroy, please don't tell my Mom I was sitting on the floor in my new dress," she pleaded politely.

He smiled at her and winked.

"I won't tell her, kid," he promised sincerely. He raised an eyebrow and looked down at her. "She was lookin' for you," he said.

"I know," Abigail said. She frowned, and stepped closer, shrugging uncertainly. She held a finger to her lips. Gibbs gave her a smile again and, on a whim, he sat down in front of her, folding up his knees in front of him. She wouldn't feel so intimidated without him towering over her.

"How old are you now?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Seven," she answered. "You're s'pose to know that. You sent a card!" she reminded him.

"I'm old," he told her. "I forget things."

Abigail laughed quietly. She shuffled her feet and smoothed out her dress again.

"Why're you hiding out?" Gibbs asked mildly.

The little girl frowned, and she shrugged, twisting a little so her dress fanned out around her.

"There's a lot of people," she answered quietly. "Lots of 'em know me, but I don't know them," she added uncertainly. "Besides, they all think Hannah is cuter."

"Ah," Gibbs said, nodding in understanding. He lifted his shoulders and spread his hands out, making a face. "I don't know those people either."

Abigail stopped twisting and then tilted her head, looking at him curiously. She smiled a little and sat down, crossing her legs Native American style and tilting her head back to make eye contact with him.

"I can keep you company while you hide," she offered, and then pointed to herself shyly, "and you can keep me company while I hide."

He pretended to think about it a moment, and then extended his hand and shook hers in a playful, business like way. He nodded firmly and Abigail smiled in relief, visibly relaxing. Her hideout was safe and she had some company; she wasn't so anxious anymore and he was glad he could help her out. It was distracting him a little, and that was a relief, too.

Abigail tilted her head back and forth, looking down at her crossed legs and playing with the straps on her black Mary Janes. She hummed to herself soothingly and sighed, crawling back into her own world. Then she looked up, and eyed him narrowly.

"Daddy was my best friend, you know," she said seriously. She looked down again and pulled her legs up, resting her chin on her knees. "We both liked baseball more than anyone."

"You'll have to keep liking baseball," Gibbs said.

Abigail nodded, staring at her shoes still. She sniffled and shrugged.

"But I'm worried about him, Uncle Leroy," she said quietly.

Gibbs furrowed his brow.

"Rusty?" he asked. "Your Dad?" he corrected, changing gears. She nodded dejectedly and he frowned, taken aback. Why would she be worried about her Dad? He was at peace now—some sort of peace, Gibbs had always had to believe in some kind of peace or there would be no comfort for him—shouldn't it be her mom Abigail was worried about?

"What's got you worried?" Gibbs asked mildly.

"What if Daddy's lonely?" she mumbled shakily. "Me 'n' Mommy 'n' Stephen 'n' Hannah have each other, but Daddy is all lonely in heaven," she went on. "Well, I guess if he is in heaven," she added with a frown. "Kids at my school said people with AIDS don't go to heaven because they're sinners."

"I don't think that's true," Gibbs said seriously. "Your dad was a good guy, Abs."

"I know," she said quietly. She laid her cheek on her knee. "He used to call me Abs. Mommy doesn't like nicknames." Abigail sighed and blew air out through her lips, closing her eyes tightly. "He's still all alone up there, Uncle Leroy," she whimpered. "He's gonna miss me."

Gibbs looked at her intently. He thought it was awful that this seven-year-old girl was curled up worrying about how her father was handling all of this when she was the one left behind. Maybe it was a deflection, or maybe she really felt that way, but he hated to see it, and the instinct to make her feel better was still there from his days being a father to a girl her age.

He leaned forward and poked her gently in the knee, getting her attention.

"Tell you what, Abigail," he said quietly. "I know a little girl up there who would be happy to keep your Dad company until he can see you again some day."

"You do?"

He nodded, and lifted his finger, pointing upwards to the ceiling, to the sky.

"I'll let her know," he said hoarsely. "I like to think she misses me, so your Dad can keep her company, too."

Abigail looked at him with wide eyes and leaned forward on her palms, looking at him sadly. She had her father's eyes, the same as Diane.

"Who is she?" Abigail asked.

"My daughter," he answered thickly.

Children were so unassuming, so well-meaning-so easy and _soothing_ to interact with.

"What's her name?" Abigail asked. "So I can tell Daddy to find her?"

"Kelly," Gibbs said. He smiled tightly. "She's about your age."

Kelly, his Kelly. He missed her so much.

Abigail leapt up. She crept closer to Gibbs and bit her lip, looking at him uncertainly.

"Uncle Leroy, I wish she hadn't died," she said sincerely, her lips puckering sadly. "Is it okay for me to hug you?"

He just nodded, and the kid threw herself at him in her version of a miniature bear hug, patting his head in a very cute way. He smiled a little, giving her a comforting hug back and setting his jaw stiffly.

"She's in-oh, um, _Abigail_…"

Amanda walked into the room, first sounding annoyed, and then trailing off quietly, obviously embarrassed for having barged in. Gibbs looked up to see her back up a bit, and Diane walked in right behind her, holding Abigail's little sister.

"Sissy," Hannah piped up, waving her fingers and grinning. "Where been?" she asked.

Abigail let go of Gibbs and pranced backwards, smiling at him with a much brighter, happier disposition.

"Abigail," Amanda sighed, beckoning to her. "I've been looking for you, sweetheart, Grandfather wants to take you and your brother and sister to get ice cream," she said, frowning. "What are you doing in here?"

"Me and Uncle Leroy are hiding," Abigail said matter-of-factly. "We don't like all the people."

Amanda gave a distracted smile, and Abigail waltzed over towards her slowly.

"Then make your grandfather happy and go with him," she said, reaching to take Hannah from Diane and hand her over to Abigail's care. Hannah stood unsteadily and grabbed Abigail's hand obediently and excitedly.

"Treats," she informed her sister. Abigail just nodded and put her other hand on her hip, turning around to look at Gibbs.

"I'll tell Daddy about Kelly," she said, and waved goodbye to him.

Amanda looked at Gibbs tiredly and rubbed her forehead.

"Thank you for keeping an eye on her," she said, and turned to usher her kids out of the room. "I hope you weren't bothering Leroy," she said to Abigail as they left. "Who's _Kelly_, Abigail?"

"Uncle Leroy's daughter," Abigail answered, the words fading quite a bit. "She's going to keep Dad company…"

Diane leaned against the doorway, biting her lip tensely as she realized what Abigail and her husband must have been talking about. Amanda didn't know about Kelly, though she was obviously about to find out from Abigail, and it scared Diane to consider what was going on in Leroy's head right now.

He was still sitting on the floor, looking straight ahead of him.

"Leroy," she said. She stopped and cleared her throat. "Hon, are you-?" She stopped mid-sentence when he got up and waved his hand at her as if he wanted her to shut up.

He rubbed his jaw and turned towards her, walking over slowly. She straightened up, her shoulders set firmly back against the wall, and when he finally looked at her, she felt like strangling him, because she knew that look in his eye and she knew _exactly_ what he was about to do, and she didn't think she'd be able to hold it together when he did.

"We don't have to stay much longer," she said desperately, trying to cut him off.

He shook his head curtly.

"I can't, Diane," he said gruffly. "I can't."

"Leroy, _please_."

"I've got to get back to work," he went on tensely. He forced his muscles to mask his emotions and he painfully forced his voice to keep steady and cool. She leaned forward and gave him an angry look, her eyes flashing.

"You're just going to leave?" she demanded. "You're just going to hop on a flight back to DC?"

He nodded silently and she made a noise of disbelief. She reached out and touched his shoulders.

"It's just a few more days, Leroy, you can't do this to me," she begged. "I need you. I know it hurts, but it isn't going to feel any better when you get home, you're just going to drink, you—Leroy," she touched his face. "Leroy, please stay. Don't do this."

He took her hand, swallowed hard, and then kissed her palm.

"I'll pick you up at the airport Tuesday," he said, his words hollow and superficially gentlemanly.

She thrust her hand out.

"How do I explain this to my family?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "There's no way for me to put you in a good light!"

He looked at her angrily.

"Then don't," he snapped.

"I _can't_! My brother just _died_, Leroy, and you can't even be there for me, you're too busy moping over this tragedy that happened _years_ ago," she fired off aggressively. "I'm so sick of it. I'm so tired of tiptoeing around it. You need _help_," she shouted quietly.

He looked at her coldly. She wasn't ever going to understand what this was like. She had never in life lost everyone that meant everything to her. He couldn't put into words how much he hated being near her right now; he couldn't make her understand what a black hole this place was to him. He just glared at her, until she reached up and covered her eyes, and then straightened up, and suddenly her eyes were dry and she had a calm, almost frightening expressionless mask on her face.

"It isn't my fault they died," she said tiredly. "I won't apologize for not being _her,_" she asserted strongly, and then reached out and shoved her hand into his pocket, yanking out his keys. "I'll drive you to the airport," she offered bitterly. "I've got to save some face."

She turned and shoved her shoulder into his roughly, storming off to go and excuse herself in a polite, hopefully unnoticeable way, and he fell back against the doorframe heavily, his back slamming into the structure uncomfortably. He was sorry for making her so miserable, but they were beyond fixing, and what he needed was back on the east coast.

* * *

Needless to say, she was surprised when she opened her door and, four days before he was due back from Seattle, Gibbs was standing on her doorstep. It was late; Noemi had gone home hours ago, but Jenny had just gotten home from work. She cocked her eyebrow at him and noted his wrinkled clothing, bloodshot eyes, and the way his hair was sticking up at an angle, and she figured he'd either just gotten off a cross-country flight or he was drunk.

Or both.

She stepped aside to let him in.

"You left your brother-in-law's funeral to steal some time with your mistress?" she asked coolly, her tone dull rather than accusatory. "My, _my_, this affair has gotten seedy."

She shut the door, bolted it, and turned around, leaning against it with her palms cushioning her tailbone. She had given up on trying to pretend they were just fucking out some stress a long time ago.

"Mistress?" he retorted, narrowing his eyes.

"Kept woman?" she offered sarcastically.

He snorted.

"You're not anyone's kept woman, Jen."

"I _think_ I'm flattered," she said dryly, her lips pulling down in an inadvertent frown. She shifted her feet and started to say something but, sliding his hands into his pockets and looking at her intently, he interrupted her:

"Happy birthday."

She parted her lips; her eyes widened a little.

"Oh," she vocalized, startled. "Oh," she said again.

He—knew it had been her birthday? She hadn't expected him to. She _couldn't_ have expected him to, even if she _wanted_ him to know it and kind of had that silly feeling that she wanted to share that with him. He wasn't supposed to—and she didn't have a right to—and—

She blinked.

"Um," she said softly. "Thank you."

She suddenly didn't know what to say. She opened her mouth and closed it and then pushed off the door and walked towards him hesitantly. She put her hand on his shoulder gently, and then ran her other hand up his chest and leaned into a hug, locking her arms behind his back tightly. He hugged back, turning his face into her hair, and she smiled, her brow furrowing. She laughed a little.

He'd just made her feel…important to him.

"You want to go to dinner?" he asked gruffly.

She pulled back, her hands sliding to the back of his neck and, standing on her tiptoes, she gave him a skeptical, confused look.

"Out?" she asked.

He looked at her like she was asking a stupid question and she moved her lips soundlessly, trying to remember why that wasn't an option, why that wasn't something that they did. She shook her head, shaking him a little.

"You're _married_," she said, as if he didn't know.

He winced a bit and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

"She's in Seattle, Jen," he retorted, brushing off the reminder.

_Yeah, at a funeral_, Jenny thought to herself, a pang of guilt stabbing her somewhere in her chest.

"Her friends aren't," Jenny protested, the light in her eyes fading. "People you know, if they see," she broke off, and shrugged helplessly, her hands sliding down his shoulders. "Jethro, it's after eleven," she said weakly.

"I don't care," he said bluntly.

She narrowed her eyes, not sure if she should believe such a bold statement. He suddenly didn't care if this blew up in their faces, or he suddenly just didn't care about _anything_? He seemed so laid-back, so broken up about something. She didn't want to ask. She looked at him, hesitating, and laughed uncomfortably.

"We can't," she said, her teeth coming down on her lower lip painfully. She pointed to the ground between them. "_This_ is my territory," she said quietly. "This is where we—we—" she tried to find a word. "This is where we are."

He tilted his head, arching an eyebrow at her. She noticed how bloodshot his eyes were again.

"Have you been drinking, Jethro?" she asked softly. She suddenly realized she hadn't seen his truck parked on her street.

He reached up and rubbed his jaw, nodding slowly.

"How did you get here?"

"Walked," he answered.

She stared at him. There was no way he'd walked—

"From the metro," he clarified.

-_still_. Walking from Foggy Bottom station down to her brown stone was not exactly a short stride. She pursed her lips sighed, blowing air through her lips that stirred the wisps of hair around her face. He'd obviously had a lot to drink on the plane; he needed to work it off.

"You're drunk," she asserted.

He gave her a look, rolled his eyes, and stepped closer, laying his hand on her cheek. He shook his head, and she could smell whiskey on his breath, yet he was handling it fine; he wasn't stumbling, slurring, unstable. His eyes were just red, and he was just _off_.

"You ever seen the monuments at night, Jen?" he asked.

She laughed.

"I've lived here most of my life," she answered. "Of course I have."

"Which one's your favorite?"

She twisted her lips up thoughtfully, and lowered her voice to a whisper.

"Jefferson's," she confided.

He tilted his head back and forth a little and then lowered his lips to the corner of her mouth, kissing along her jaw.

"Let's take a walk," he suggested in her ear, running his other hand down her arm until he'd found her fingers and tangled his in them. She looked down at the hands, her hair brushing his face, and she stared at them, contemplating.

"Damn long walk," she murmured, quirking an eyebrow to herself.

"Good thing we like each other," he deadpanned, and then nudged her a little towards her door. "Fresh air'll do me good," he drawled, gruffly. "C'mon, before I say anything stupid," he muttered.

And she nodded, and turned to her front door as she snatched her house key out of the bowl on the hall table. She opened the door, her hand still locked into his, left to wonder what stupid things he was thinking and not saying.

* * *

She lay half-clothed and tangled up in her sheets next to him, her eyes lazily and lightly closed, her nose and mouth pressed up to his shoulder just so their skin grazed a little. She was vaguely surprised he wasn't asleep, considering they'd just spent hours prowling the streets of DC and then tacked on a half an hour of fooling around. His hand moving slowly back and forth on her thigh told her he was still wide-awake, and she attributed it to the fact that, like two _teenagers_, they hadn't actually had sex.

Yet.

Jenny ran her hand over his chest and pushed her knuckles into his shoulder, taking a deep, calm breath.

"Hey," she muttered. "Grab my phone," she ordered.

He turned away from her compliantly and fumbled for the cordless device on her bedside table, dragging covers with him. She shivered, lifting her head, and smiled when he tossed it between them. She picked it up and shifted to her stomach, raising up on her elbows and rolling her neck back and forth.

"What're you doing?" he asked, as she eyed the keypad blearily.

"I'm hungry," she answered huskily. She nudged him with her foot. "I didn't have a liquid dinner," she teased.

"S' two in the morning," he grumbled skeptically.

She popped her eyebrows up and pursed her lips haughtily, dialing a number and holding the phone to her ear.

"I know a place," she said mysteriously, and then she was speaking in English-accented, halting Chinese as the man on the end of the line answered her call.

Gibbs turned to his side and leaned his head on his palm, pulling his fingers down her spine. He pushed the sheets down her back some and then slid his hand back up her skin and slipped his fingers under the clasp of her bra, running the pads of his fingers over the faint marks the bra strap had made against her skin.

She covered the mouthpiece with her palm.

"That tickles," she hissed, wriggling. "What do you want—_stop_," she squealed breathily, when he slipped his hand under her and really did tickle her ribs. He smirked and leaned over her, kissing her neck affectionately. He shrugged.

"Usual," he said, and after a moment, she started speaking again, in English this time, and ordered their _usual_. He kept kissing the parts of her he could reach without moving too much, and when she was finished ordering, she dropped the phone on his head and rolled away from him, feigning irritation with his pawing. He just grinned at her and yanked her back.

"Who's gonna go pick that up?" he growled into her hair.

"He's delivering," she retorted.

Gibbs gave her a look, as if reminding her how late it was, and she shot him a sly look right back.

"I have connections," she drawled smugly, arching an eyebrow.

"With who? The Chinese mafia?"

"Is that even a real _thing_?" Jenny asked skeptically, mocking him. She rolled her eyes at him in a patronizing way and rolled onto her stomach again, raising back onto her elbows and examining a nail she'd torn earlier. She put it to her mouth to tear off the split part and shrugged.

"It's this tiny little place buried in Georgetown," she explained absently. "It's really quiet and really good. I used to be there three days a week studying," she said. "Mm, back in law school."

"So they open the place for you?" Gibbs asked sarcastically.

"They're open until four in the morning," she answered. She smirked wryly. "But Xiang only delivers to _me_."

Gibbs glared at her mildly and she grinned loftily at him.

"You eat too much Chinese food," he growled.

She laughed and sat up, punching him in the shoulder. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

"We all have our faults," she sighed dramatically. She bit her lip, and he narrowed his eyes at her, tracing the outline of her body, from her hair falling over her shoulder to the place where her body twisted and her hips disappeared into the flimsy cotton shorts she had on.

His fault was sitting right next to him, looking at him with her striking emerald eyes.

* * *

Jenny winced when she heard his beeper go off for the fifth time since it had woken her up this morning. He was ignoring it, and she was trying to pretend she couldn't hear it and didn't know who was trying to reach him, but the sound seemed indescribably louder when it echoed around his basement.

She snooped through some tools, making sure to be rather loud in doing so in order to drown out the beeper going off. He was poking around some drawers, looking for the tools he needed to fix her shower, and her heating system.

"What else was screwed up?" he asked, distracted.

_This relationship_, she thought, before she could push the stop away.

"My sink drips," she answered.

"Ah, that's easy," Gibbs answered. "Probably just needs tightenin' up," he muttered to himself. He grunted in annoyance and straightened up. "Jen, you see my screw driver over there?" he asked.

"Phillips head or Robertson?" she asked logically.

He snorted, impressed, and asked for the Phillip's head. She looked around, realized she'd just been playing with it, and twirled it around her fingers before she turned around to hand it to him. He was holding his tool belt in one hand and reached out for it.

His beeper went off again; she winced again.

"Jethro," she said, slapping the screwdriver into his hand, "just answer her."

He tucked the tool into his belt and looked away, glancing menacingly at his beeper. It had stopped squealing at this point, but they both knew it was just a matter of time. He shrugged his shoulders tensely.

"Something might be wrong," Jenny said quietly.

Gibbs looked at her skeptically.

"What do you care?" he asked.

She blinked, startled. She stepped back and crossed her arms, parting her lips while she let his words sink in. She didn't know why she wanted him to call Her back, except she wanted the beeper to stop going off as a reminder. But she didn't have any _cruelty_ towards Her, she didn't—

"I don't hate your wife, Jethro," she said softly. "Do…you?" she asked. He looked down at his beeper immediately, refusing eye contact, and she didn't want to talk about it suddenly; it was too emotional, too raw. She shifted her weight and shrugged. "She'll just be suspicious if you ignore her," she said curtly.

He touched his beeper, and looked at all of the pages he'd ignored. He looked back at her guardedly and then unclipped the device, holding it up and squinting at it. He didn't say another word; he stormed off up the stairs—presumably to find the phone—leaving his tools behind him.

Jenny leaned back into the counter behind her and picked up a bottle of his bourbon. She busied herself reading the label—ingredients, calories, manufacturing information—because she wanted to numb her brain to thoughts, and she was half trying to see what she could hear upstairs.

* * *

Diane answered the phone on the first ring, and he winced; he sincerely hoped something wasn't wrong or he was going to feel like the _worst_ husband around.

"Leroy," she greeted automatically, without even letting him say hello. "Hi."

"Hey," he answered cautiously.

She sighed heavily—she sounded tired.

"Funeral over?" Gibbs asked.

"I just came from the gravesite," she answered. "Abigail started screaming, she didn't want them to," Diane paused. She went silent, and then changed gears, dropping that conversation. "I understand why you left," she said dully.

She didn't start in demanding to know where he'd been or why he'd missed so many of her calls and pages; she seemed to disheartened and upset. He didn't say anything when she confessed understanding, and she sighed again.

"I feel like an outsider," Diane said. "He was my brother but I…I've been away from his daily life for years. It's different for everyone else here. I can't handle it," she explained bitterly. "I'm coming home early," she said.

"When?" he asked automatically.

"Sunday night. Tomorrow night," she said. "My flight will be in around six," she told him.

"Okay," he said gruffly, nodding to himself.

"You'll be there to pick me up?" she asked.

"Yeah, Diane," he agreed.

She murmured something he didn't quite understand, and then seemed to hold the phone away and talk for a moment.

"I have to go," she muttered, half-annoyed. "My mother is throwing a fit in the kitchen," she added bitterly. "She's so self-centered, Leroy."

Gibbs snorted lightly. He didn't say anything, she said goodbye, and he hung up, and then pushed the phone away and rubbed his jaw tensely. He felt numb. He wouldn't have wished that kind of hollow sadness on anyone, and it guilted him to think Diane was suffering alone on the west coast because he'd abandoned her. It was worse to know that he would rather be here, with Jenny; it was _worse_ to know he was pissed that Diane was coming back early because it meant two days he'd miss out on with Jenny.

He threw the phone down with a loud thud and leaned forward stiffly. He clipped his beeper back on and shoved the thought of picking his wife up at the airport tomorrow to the back of his mind.

He still had tonight.

* * *

She had gone from reading the label of the bottle to drinking from the bottle when Gibbs reappeared. She cocked an eyebrow at him, pulling her lips away from the Wild Turkey, and he glared at her mildly.

"Help yourself, Jen," he said sarcastically.

"You've created a monster," she retorted smoothly, spinning the cap precariously around her pointer finger and then screwing it back on the bottle.

He smirked and took the bottle from her, pushing it back into its place on the counter. He reached up with his thumb and traced her bottom lip, leaning in to kiss the taste of bourbon from her mouth. His hands fell to the counter behind her and she tilted her head back, leaning back. He arched his eyebrows and pulled away slightly, his nose rubbing against her cheek.

"Not what you expected when you joined my team," he growled.

She put her hands on his neck lightly.

"No," she murmured, shaking her head in earnest. "No, Jethro."

She turned her head to catch his eye and raised her own eyebrow.

"You are not at all what I expected," she said quietly, closing in, and pressing her lips against his again.

He pressed against her in response to the kiss and wrapped his arms around her back tightly. Unexpectedly, he lifted her up on the counter behind her and she held onto his shoulders tightly, startled by the swift movement. He trailed his hand down her spine, over her hip, and held her thigh up around his waist, drawing small circles there with his thumb.

She let her head fall back a little, lips pursed, when he drew his mouth over her jaw down the column of her throat.

"Here?" she breathed, uncertain, more than a little shamefully turned on by his sudden desire to fuck her in his basement.

He just squeezed her thigh tightly and let his other hand wander down her back to the waist of her jeans, lingering where her shirt gave way to bare skin and the low-slung denim teased a preview.

She swallowed hard and let her eyes fall closed, sliding her hands down his chest to the button of his jeans. She let _his_ certainty, _his_ choices, assuage her doubts and her guilt and her fears.

_Thou shalt not commit adultery_, she thought, but hell_, if you're already breaking that rule, why not do it in the house his wife lives in_?

* * *

Tucking a towel snugly around her naked torso, Jenny rose up on her toes to tug lightly but firmly on the shower curtain rod, secretly testing Gibbs' handiwork. It seemed to be immaculate; there was absolutely no give in the place where she'd once so easily ripped the rod from the wall.

It was pleasant to have taken a shower without worrying about how wet she was getting the bathroom. A week of a messy, damp bathroom had been less than fun, and she was smugly thankful that he'd been able to fix it so easily. She pulled the shower curtain closed neatly and shivered, turning to her mirror.

She wiped her hand in a swish through the condensation and examined her reflection; her skin was still wet, pink from the heat of the shower, and her hair was matted in wet curls around her face and neck. She pulled it all over one shoulder, wringing it out in the sink, and didn't bother to swing it up in a towel or a tied twist.

A faint warm stream of air reminded her that Gibbs had managed to hammer her heat back into cooperation as well—and he'd started on the sink right before she got in the shower. Never mind that he'd woken her up this morning fixing the damn thing; now all she could think about was how unexpectedly good it felt to have a man around to fix things and just be there when she woke up—

-it felt good, that is, until the unwelcome, dark noose of his wedding ring seemed to fall around her neck and start to strangle her.

She didn't _like_ that she suddenly had the stupid desire to have a man around—(not a man; just Jethro)—and she didn't _like_ how he made things jam together in her head until her feelings and her ambitions were so goddamn tangled that she couldn't navigate what she wanted. She didn't _like_ that she was the other woman; she _hated_ that she was a well-kept secret, and she _deplored_ the way she felt about herself so often now because she had never been that insecure woman.

She didn't like that she had stumbled into something so deep that she couldn't get out; something so messy that she couldn't clean it up. She didn't like that she was going to get hurt in a way she'd never prepared herself before—she _hated_ that the first time she'd ever really loved someone she'd been so stupid and so _selfish_ and it was so full of guilt and it was going to _scar_ her so badly—she didn't like these things; she hated all of these _things_.

But she _loved_ him. She loved _him_.

She bit her lips shakily and un-tucked her towel, letting it fall to the bathroom floor. She leaned forward and looked herself in the eye, judging herself, and she felt irrational and immature and happy and devastated at the same time—there was a man downstairs fixing her sink whom she'd never seen coming and who she never wanted to let go. But he wasn't hers. And she had a goal to reach—a job to do.

She wished she'd never started sleeping with him—no, she wished it was Friday night again, and they were eating Chinese in bed and talking about that _ridiculous_ case with the Naval Academy's goat—no, she just wished he wasn't _married_, then everything would be okay—

"Stop," she said aloud.

To herself. To no one in particular.

_Stop what?_ She answered herself, silently and defiantly.

She felt in some moral part of her that she should have the strength to put an end to this; she should take the higher ground and say no—but the part of her that wanted to be happy, that wanted him, told that he was making his own decision. He wanted her, and that wasn't her fault. _She_ had no one she was required to be faithful to, and if he wanted to throw his vows away that was on him.

Jenny opened her medicine cabinet and took out the shade of lipstick that was inexplicably Jethro's favorite. She popped the cap off and twisted the stick of colour out of its tube, looking intently at it for a moment.

She puckered her lips, and painted _Lilith_ over her lips expertly.

She replaced the lipstick and left the bathroom, going straight to her bureau. She fished out a short silk robe from the bottom drawer and laid it out before searching out a matched set of her lingerie. She slipped on the edgy sheer lace panties and then bra and pulled the robe around her, shaking out her hair messily and attractively.

While he was here, and before he had to beat it tonight to pick up his wife at the airport, she might as well remind him why he wanted to stay—and why he kept coming back.

* * *

Gibbs squinted narrowly as he braced his foot on the floor and used his strength to leverage a pipe in Jen's sink while he tightened the bolts. The whole damn thing was loose and old; he was getting rust and particles all over him. The hardwood floor in her kitchen was killing his back.

He grit his teeth when he heard the pipe click back into place and then relaxed, reaching up and wiped his forehead of sweat, choosing to lay there for a minute instead of getting out from under the sink and standing up. The water had turned off about ten minutes ago; Jen was out of the shower.

Gibbs moved his hand and shoved his wrench into the tool belt at his waist. He winced and was careful to cover his head while he sat up and ducked out from under the sink, wiping his forehead again and rolling his shoulders back. He sat forward and his hammer fell to the floor with a thud. He turned to pick it up, and caught sight of a pair of bare feet in the doorway.

He followed the vision up two long, bare legs until he hit the edge of a _very_ short robe.

He contemplated that for a minute, and then looked up. She had that damn lipstick on, and her hair looked…looked like he'd been yanking his hands through it. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"I like that tool belt," she remarked, cocking a brow suggestively.

He smirked at her and reached down to unbuckle it, pushing it aside. He looked up at the table where his half-empty beer had been abandoned and got up, stretching his back out and taking a drink. He saw her tilt her head out of the corner of her eye, and felt her eyes roam over his jeans and his dirty, wrinkled shirt.

"Hey handyman," she said seductively.

He put the beer down and looked over just in time to see her untie and drop her silk robe on the floor, leaning against the doorway with her hand on her hip in a matching set of tantalizing green lace lingerie. He stared at her appreciatively, his eyes glued to her legs, her stomach, her breasts, and then her mouth.

Her lips moved.

"Come screw me," she said huskily.

He crossed the room and snaked his arm around her bare hips, pulling her close. She arched her back towards him, her head resting on the doorframe, her arms falling over his shoulder lazily.

He leaned in for a kiss and she met him halfway, the lipstick smearing over his lips, and then on the collar of his dirty shirt as he pushed her back against the doorway, consumed by her again.

* * *

He lost track of time—_dammit_—and he knew the minute he woke up abruptly and Jen's hair was dry on his chest that he had fucked up royally.

He fumbled loudly for his beeper and for the clock on her bedside table, jolting her off of him, and was sitting up when he registered what time it was.

"Shit," he swore roughly, over the sound of her confused mumbling.

The curse startled her and she sat up, pushing her tangled hair back and looking at him groggily.

"What's wrong?" she murmured.

"It's after seven," he growled, already getting dressed.

He yanked on his boxers and jeans, fully alert in seconds thanks to his military training. She was looking at him as if she didn't understand, and then her eyes opened wide and her hand flew to her mouth. It was Sunday night. He was supposed to pick his wife up at the airport.

Her flight got in at _six_.

Jenny drew her legs up to her chest, her stomach twisting in horror. She felt awful.

He pulled his shirt over his head, ignoring how dirty he was, and took his beeper off of her bedside table. It had several missed pages on it and he swore again, distracted and pissed off. She bit her lip harshly, unable to believe they'd really fallen asleep for so long.

Gibbs rubbed his face roughly and looked at her; he looked at a loss.

"Go, Jethro," she prompted, pulling her hand away from her mouth with an annoyed look.

He nodded.

"Work," he said, nodding in her direction.

She nodded, leaning back heavily. Work. She'd see him at _work_ tomorrow.

He was out the door, down the stairs, and slamming her front door in record time; she was sure he hadn't even bothered to get his tools off of the kitchen floor—and when she looked unhappily over at the bedside table to hate the clock, she realized with a paralyzing sinking feeling that he hadn't bothered to put his wedding ring back on, either.

* * *

Diane didn't say a word to him when he showed up an hour and a half late at Reagan National. She looked at her watch coldly, met his eyes, let him take her suitcase, and got into the car silently and stiffly. He took the cue from her and didn't try to make excuses; he'd managed to get out of the airport and onto the beltway when she shifted and looked over at him.

"You're dirty," she remarked bluntly, looking at his clothing.

Her eyebrows knit together. He glanced down at himself and then back at the road, words running together in his head. She took his silence for a non-answer, and said nothing for a moment—and then she leaned back in her seat and leaned her head on the window.

"You smell like _Paris_, Leroy," she said mechanically.

He was taken aback completely that she remembered the name of Jenny's perfume, and internally, he swore—he stumbled. She hadn't even been wearing it, but it seemed it was all over her sheets, and always all over him—

"I was fixing Shepard's sink," he offered curtly. "Pipes busted."

"And she called you?" Diane asked dully. "She called _you_, instead of a plumber?" Diane just scoffed quietly. She shifted her head and took a deep breath, staring out the window into the evening while he drove.

"You were late because you were at Shepard's house?" she asked quietly, a very resigned, hurt tone in her voice.

"I dropped the ball, Diane," he said.

He meant it, and she must have sensed immediately that he really did _mean_ it. It was basically an apology, and he never apologized—it was against his personal creed—and to hear it now, for once, when he really did need to say it, was like a soothing balm for her soul, and she fell silent; she seemed to relax.

She was quiet the whole way home.

* * *

He was considerate enough to open her car door and the front door for her, and he put her suitcase in their room before he went into the kitchen and immediately when for the cabinet where she kept her favorite wine—he figured she needed a drink—and then he heard her crying in the hallway.

Gibbs set the wineglasses down with a clink and approached her outside the kitchen.

She was standing just outside, her face in her hands, just crying. He swallowed hard and slowly walked over to her, watching her silently, hesitating. He reached out to take her shoulders and she grasped his arms tightly, leaning into him.

"I miss him so much," she sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder. "He was my superhero when I was little. And I'll never see him again. I feel like I'm drowning, Leroy," she cried, holding onto him tightly.

He wrapped his arms around her back, standing still why she cried.

"This is unbearable," she whimper, he voice muffled against him. "I feel so empty, and I saw everything so clearly in Seattle and you," she trailed off and then she hit him, hard, angrily, and she switched gears: "You smell like that _bitch_," she cried, wounded.

It obviously hadn't been what she was going to say, but it cut pretty badly.

He ran his hand through her hair.

"Annie," he murmured comfortingly, pushing her back against the wall.

He met her eyes, running his hand through her hair again, and she tried to catch her breath, her body shaking, and tears still spilling out of her eyes. She bit her trembling lip, the anger fading from her eyes, and then she lunged forward and pressed her lips against his, seeking lustful, numb abandon.

He didn't know how long they kissed like that in the hallway—he was good at losing track of time today—and he wasn't thinking straight when he took her to bed and they were a frenzied tangle of naked limbs and desperation. They didn't talk; they just touched—taking comfort, trying to find some sort of solace in each other.

She tried to chase away her demons and her weakness and her pain, and he tried to sweat away his sin and betrayal and make it up to her in some way; he was unforgiveable and she was clinging to a marriage that was shreds and broken pieces.

Diane curled up next to him when it was over, her breathing hoarse and shaky, her face buried in the pillow, and he lay next to her, his arm protectively over her waist, and he slept with his wife—intimately, really _slept_ with her—and neither of them mentioned that it had been _months_ since the last time this had happened.

She cried herself to sleep next to him and he held her with his eyes closed, exhausted, strained from lying, stressed from pretending, guilty—he rubbed his thumb over his bare ring finger and winced, setting his jaw.

Something foreboding and final hung in the air; his gut twisted with a bad feeling and he knew this was it; it was over—things were about to fall apart.

* * *

Diane Gibbs messily tied her hair up into a bun and slipped a cloth headband around her neck, pulling it up over her nose and neatly arranging it so that wisps of her red locks were held back. She took a deep breath and took another two tablets of Advil before she hoisted a laundry basket back onto her hip and waltzed out of the kitchen.

She had returned from Seattle two days earlier than expected, but she had still chosen to take her days off. She needed the time to relax, recoup—to be alone and to think. The night she'd gotten back had been tumultuous and emotional; she couldn't remember the last time she'd broken down so completely.

And Leroy had been there. And that was confusing her and making her hurt in dull, unwelcome ways. He had cared—he had taken care of her, and he'd been sweet this morning and Monday morning before work. She had almost forgotten how late he'd been, and how suspicious and mad about _where_ he'd been she was, because for once, he had _been there_ for her.

It threw her for a hard loop. It wasn't what she needed. When he had been so late to pick her up, she swore it was the push she needed to leave. She had done so much soul-searching in Seattle, so much thinking. She thought she'd found the strength to get herself out of this unhealthy mess—and then he showed her how _good_ of a man he was underneath all of his own gruff, stubborn, silent pain.

She'd been doing mundane, robotic household chores all day just to take her damn mind off of it.

She set the laundry basket down on the washer and then went around the house on a last scout for clothing. The basement was her last stop; sometimes Leroy left his clothes down there if he slept there or came home too late and didn't want to wake her up. She checked the workbench and paused—his tools were missing.

She pursed her lips; it was odd. His hand tools were always in the same place.

She dragged her eyes away from that and wandered to the counter, where she found what she was looking for. A dirty tie, a belt, a starched white shirt, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt—she rolled her eyes; half of this stuff was from the White House benefit he'd been at _weeks_ ago.

She carried them back up the stairs with her and threw them into the laundry basket absently, pushing it aside and messing with the washer to get it set appropriately for a load of whites—she had enough to bleach, and she'd been wanting to bleach her white golf skirt for ages.

The washer clicked on and water poured into it in a soothing waterfall; Diane began throwing whites into it thoughtlessly; socks, undershirts, polos, the starched button-down—

-a bit of colour on the starched button down caught her eye and she held onto it before she dropped it, turning it in her hands with mild curiosity to investigate. She looked at the colour for what turned out to be the longest, most devastating minute of her life, and then lowered her hand, defeated.

It was lipstick.

* * *

It was ironic, she thought, to find herself in such an unsavory, cliché situation. She, a successful, self-assured, painfully confident professional woman, standing alone in the middle of the day in the drafty, bare laundry room, holding her husband's wrinkled, unwashed shirt.

She rarely did her husband's laundry; their schedules often worked against each other and he was perfectly capable and willing to do his own—which, she considered, as she stared at the bold smear of lipstick on the collar of this particular shirt, might have been due more to ulterior motive than to a progressive notion of household chore gender equality.

She held the garment a little closer, narrowing her eyes with cynical, hollow interest. The garish blot of lipstick stood out against the stark white of the shirt; she could not decide if it was a pinkish-red, or a purple-tinted-red. She supposed the exact colour was altogether irrelevant when she considered what this troublesome streak of lipstick indicated.

She felt dizzy for a moment, and the dizziness gave way to a vague, resigned, hollow irritation. She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes for a split second, opening them only to continue staring intently at this stain on her husband's shirt. Anger flared heatedly, subsided into melancholy, and settled into humiliated heartache in a sickening whirlwind.

She had seen the end coming for a good length of time now, but if it absolutely _had_ to end like this—and that wasn't to say she hadn't entertained the suspicion that something might be going on behind her back—she found it to be a devastating blow to her pride that she was doomed to stumble across it by way of errant lipstick in the laundry room while performing such a domestic, housewife chore.

What frustrated her was that she knew Leroy wasn't this stupid; he wasn't lazy, and—though he could be hurtful—he was far from malicious, and he never would have meant for his her to find this. He was more careful; he would have tried to protect her, and that she knew how good of a man he could be infuriated her because this one careless accident of a lipstick-marred shirt hurt more than anything he had ever done.

The reason Diane Gibbs was so intensely paralyzed by this seemingly insignificant smear of lipstick was for no other reason than she was positive that none of the lipstick in her cosmetic repertoire was responsible for it.

Lipstick on his collar. Lipstick that _wasn't_ hers. Lipstick that was red, blood, _scarlet_ red, the same red that matched the soles of Christian Louboutin shoes, she realized. Paris red. Probie red. Working _late_ red. Fixing _her_ sink red. Diane didn't own a lipstick that was this kind of red.

This was Jennifer Shepard _red_.

What happened in her heart didn't show on her face, but the pain was there. She couldn't move, and then, suddenly, all she could do was _move_. She abandoned the laundry and tore into her bathroom, violently pulling out her make-up bag. She yanked toilet paper from its roll and smeared a bit of each of the lipsticks she owned on it, praying bitterly that she did own this colour, that she'd just forgotten—

She didn't. The closest red she had was pale in comparison.

She shoved her make-up bag and the lipsticks into her sink with a clatter.

This was the _red_ Jennifer Shepard had been wearing at the barbecue.

This red was the colour of his adultery.

She didn't cry. She was cried out for the time being.

She went straight to the kitchen, holding his offending shirt in her hands, and she called Emma Pierce, her best friend—the corporate attorney. Emma answered immediately, before Diane was ready—no. This time, Diane was ready. This was it, the final straw, the _end_.

She didn't even let Emma greet her warmly beyond the professional way she answered for her firm.

"Emma. I need those papers I had you draw up," she said coldly.

It was something she had done on an angry whim a month ago, an act she never thought she'd have the courage to carry out. There was silence at the end of the line, confused silence, while Emma tried to get her bearings and keep up.

"Papers?" she asked. "…the divorce papers?" she clarified uncertainly.

Diane grit her teeth emotionally, adrenaline hitting her aggressively.

"Yes," she answered curtly.

Emma said something, but Diane couldn't take it—she just couldn't talk. She hung up, and lifted the phone to her forehead, her jaw set violently. It felt unfathomably like a breath of fresh air to take this step, and she didn't understand how she could feel so heartbroken and at the same time so _relieved_.

Diane lowered her hand, and again stared down at the lipstick-stained pure white shirt in her hands.

_Lipstick_ on his _collar_—how _sickeningly_ unoriginal.

Lipstick that was adultery red.

Sorry son of a _bitch_ red.

* * *

References: Dante Alligheri's _The Inferno_ (Hell's 2nd Circle is for carnal offenders: adulteres, the lustful, etc.), _The Chronicles of Narnia_, Hebrew/Talmud Mythology (Lilith), The Bible (ten commandments), 1988 US Vice Presidential Debate: Bentsen vs. Quayle ("You sir, are no Jack Kennedy!").

_Feedback appreciated!  
-Alexandra _


	15. Shepard's Head and Jenny's Heart

_A/N: Beans are spilled, cats are out of bags, crying's being done over spilt milk, etc., etc. Hope you enjoyed your clandestine courtship while it lasted._

_"What ultimately defines a relationship is another relationship." -Carrie Bradshaw; Sex and the City_

_"You both deserve what's coming now, so don't say a word." -Maroon 5; "Wake Up Call". [Playlist]_

* * *

_Chapter Fourteen: Shepard's head; Jenny's heart  
_

Jenny was leaned over the court documents attached to a cold case, intently focusing on highlighting anything that could have to do with the dead-end embezzlement-murder they were working on that seemed to be connected to it, when a shadow fell over her work and someone gave her a friendly flick on the neck in greeting.

"Top of the mornin' to you, Shepard," Burley greeted impishly, as she sat up rigidly and fixed a mild glare on him.

Her hand automatically flew to her neck self-consciously and she kept it there, hiding the purplish-blue mark Stan had so mockingly pointed out _again_.

"We brought donuts," Decker piped up, wandering up in front of her desk and holding up a box in a reverent way.

She still looked at him suspiciously, hand over her neck, and glanced around him to see if Gibbs had returned from MTAC. He hadn't; it was safe to stop working for a bit. Jenny leaned back, throwing her highlighter down on the files.

"What's the occasion?" she asked.

"Donuts are _awesome,_ that's the occasion," retorted Burley as if it was quite the obvious answer. "Besides, we were on our way back from tying up that case in Norfolk, and the Krispy Kreme hot sign was on and you just don't pass that up."

"You don't?" Jenny asked skeptically.

"Well, maybe _you_ do," retorted Burley, and then gestured up and down her body primly and fluttered his eyelashes. "What with your _girlish_ figure," he turned and opened the box in Decker's hand, snatching out a donut. "But I sure as hell don't."

She arched her eyebrow at him and smirked.

"I like donuts as much as the next man, bro," she retorted wryly, and craned her neck curiously. Decker lowered it so she could look at the options and Burley snickered, perching on the edge of her desk.

"Ah, ah, Shepard," he said, shaking his finger. "If you have a donut you'll have to take that hand off your neck and then we'll all still see—"

"Stan," she interrupted.

"Dunno why you're so embarrassed, Jenny, we saw the—"

"DECKER!"

"—hickey," Burley supplied.

"Yesterday," Decker finished.

Jenny glared at them both aggressively, her lower lip poking out in a petulant frown. Slowly, she reluctantly removed her hand from her neck and leaned forward, holding out her hand imperatively for a donut. Decker grinned and handed her one loftily; she tried to subtly shake her head to get her hair to fall over the mark on her neck.

"Not gonna help," Burley said loudly, flicking her hair out of the way.

She ducked him and swatted at him, rolling away in her chair and at the same time trying to protect her breakfast. Decker snickered and leaned forward, shaking his head.

"Hell, even your cover-up doesn't help _that_," he commented.

"Maybe it's _Maybelline_," Burley said solemnly. "Or maybe it's an Angry Marine."

"You are way outta line!" Jenny tried to sound outraged, but his rhyme was too funny, and she snorted instead, trying to hide that she'd found it funny by taking a huge bite of donut. She flared her nostrils and glared at them indignantly.

"It's not like we can ignore it," Decker pointed out innocently. "You walked in yesterday morning with that thing and it's still not faded."

"Yeah, I'm starting to look at the Boss in a whole new way," Burley said, reaching over and flicking Jenny's neck lightly again.

She grabbed his hand and stood up, twisting his arm behind his back and looking down at him with arched brows. She clicked her tongue and pursed her lips.

"That's very progressive of you, Stan, to be so open about the fluidity of your sexual orientation," she said in mock earnest.

He gave her a look and feebly struggled, kicking at her shin. She grinned and held her donut between her teeth in a less than ladylike way, releasing him and brushing off her hands on her jeans. She stepped back, took her donut from her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, smirking.

Decker set the box of donuts down on her desk.

"You're a lot of fun, Jenny," he said sincerely, picking out his own donut. "Stan 'n' me are glad you joined the team. Even if we screw with you."

"Not like Gibbs screws with her," remarked Burley slyly, and Jenny lobbed her donut at him without thinking.

"WHOA, Shepard, WHOA," yelped Burley, looking at her in shock. "Hey, we DO NOT WASTE Krispy Kreme donuts!" he asserted, outraged. He advanced on her threateningly, carefully avoiding stepping on her edible missile, and in stepping back, she tripped and fell, hitting the edge of her chair—which promptly dumped her onto the floor.

She shrieked in surprise and laughed, looking up at Burley's _mock_ menace in _mock_ terror. She shot a look at Decker and gave him wide, simpering eyes.

"Help me, Special Agent Decker, you're my only hope!" she quoted, hunkering down.

Decker laughed and strolled over to Burley lazily, grabbing him and yanking him back. Burley tried to swat Decker away, but Decker blocked him and gallantly helped Jenny up; she looked smugly at Burley.

"Aw, I wasn't really gonna hurt you, Jenny," he said slyly.

"Ha," she snorted derisively, arching a brow. "Do you find my lack of faith…_disturbing_?"

The elevator made its ping to signal Gibbs' arrival, and Burley backed off, grinning and shaking his head. Decker smirked and released her hand, cocking his head at her.

"Never pegged you for a Star Wars fan," he said.

"When are you two," Jenny said, pointing between the boys, "going to learn that you can't peg me for _anything_?"

"Never, prolly," Decker answered with a shrug.

Gibbs came storming into the room silently and Jenny smiled, snatching another donut before Decker removed the box.

"I saw it four times in the theatres in seventy-seven," she said conversationally. "My dad took me all four times, before he deployed again."

Gibbs looked over at her with mild interest—probably because she'd voluntarily mentioned her father—and she ignored it, smirking at Decker.

"You a fan?" she asked hopefully.

"C'mon, who doesn't like Star Wars?" Decker answered, holding out his hands. "Even people who aren't into Sci-Fi dig it. Yeah, I like 'em. Saw it three times."

They looked at Burley. He looked at Gibbs shiftily and then held up ten fingers.

_Ten._

"Ten?" Jenny asked loudly, drawing Gibbs attention.

Burley glared at her.

"Princess Leia's a hottie, okay?" he defended.

"Bet you loved Return of the Jedi," Jenny muttered.

"Hell yeah I did," Burley said proudly. "Hey, at least I was out of diapers when A New Hope came out—how old _were_ you, Shepard?" he asked pointedly.

She flushed and lowered her head.

"Seven," she answered.

Decker and Burley groaned and then, without even thinking, Burley leaned back and laughed heartily and said:

"Damn, Gibbs, you're really robbing the cradle with this one."

And with that comment, annihilated the lighthearted atmosphere. Decker's grin faded and his eyes widened; Jenny glared at Burley, and Gibbs' attention snapped on the field agent with narrow, harsh precision. Burley's smile faded immediately and he straightened up, swallowing heavily.

Jenny lowered her head to her file and again raised her hand to her neck, but before she could really get back into her highlighting, Gibbs stood up and snapped:

"Dead Marine at Quantico. Grab your gear."

"I'll get the truck," Burley volunteered immediately, scrambling up, grabbing his bag, and darting out before they could really register what happened. Decker looked torn, but then gave Jenny an apologetic look and went after Decker, leaving Jenny with a Gibbs who probably now thought she was telling filthy stories behind his back.

She closed up her files and got up, leaving a half-eaten donut on her desk. She grabbed her bag and caught the keys deftly when Gibbs chucked them (pretty violently) at her. He stood up and gave her a look across his desk, and she rolled her eyes, shrugging.

"They're not stupid, Jethro," she said.

"Not that smart, either," he remarked coolly.

"I'm not telling stories," she said curtly. "They've known since…since Maryland," she said, holding out a hand.

Gibbs snorted.

"How?" he asked skeptically.

She looked at him in disbelief and glanced around, stepping closer.

"Because they _heard_ us," she hissed.

He paused, winced, and then seemed to change his tune, falling silent and shaking is head. The idea seemed to be as distasteful to him as it was to her. He holstered his gun, tucked his badge into his pocket, and she twirled the keys around.

"When are you gonna come get your tools?" she asked.

She'd given him his wedding ring back yesterday morning, a very discrete, clandestine exchange that had been twice as hard since Burley and Decker had been so eager to tease her mercilessly about the damn hickey Gibbs had left on her throat _Sunday afternoon_. His tools and tool belt, however, were still in her kitchen. Although Noemi had put them in a neat pile on a chair.

He came around the desk and stood close to her, leaning closer.

"Tonight," he said slowly, half-asking, half-answering. She nodded, a grin touching her lips.

He'd been oddly…_distant_ yesterday. _Unexpectedly_ distant, and he'd gone home early. She suspected it had a lot to do with his tactless screw up in picking up his wife at the airport, but he had also seemed reluctant and…ashamed to look at her. This morning he'd come in a little later than her—another rare occurrence. She wondered if something had happened.

But maybe she didn't want to know.

He reached out and touched her hip, his hand subtly sliding up to slip under her blouse and stroke her bare skin. She looked around vaguely; most other agents were busy at work. She smiled and looked up at him through her eyelashes. He tilted his head.

"I was nineteen in seventy-seven," he said smugly.

She chose not to mention that she knew how old he was; she'd looked in his file when he'd told her he was a virgin at twenty-because if he had been with his first wife only, and he'd been twenty, that would have been in 1992, making him only a year or so older than she was. Of course, now she knew the reason for the inconsistencies in his story; she didn't bring it up because she didn't want to talk about it-a living wife was one problem; a dead wife was a whole different can of worms.

She opted for light sarcasm.

"I know how old you are, Gibbs," she retorted lifting her chin and then giving him a sly look. "You got twelve years on me," she said, lowering her voice. "And you were a virgin," she reminded him.

He pinched her and she laughed, jumping away. He reached out and rested his hand on her lower back, pressing her forward lightheartedly, when his beeper went off. He looked down absently, his brow furrowed, and he unclicked it, looking at it uncertainly. He removed is hand and picked up his phone immediately, dialing the number. He looked up at Jenny and pointed towards the elevator, indicating she should head down to the garage.

Her brow furrowed, and she stated off, startled that he had changed his tune so quickly, and as she was leaving, she heard him say:

"What is it, Diane?"

* * *

"What is it, Diane?" he asked vaguely, still focused on leaving the office for the crime scene.

"What time are you coming home?" she asked bluntly.

He looked at his watch absently and shrugged. He remembered she couldn't see him and cleared his throat.

"Late," he answered. "Caught a case, got one open," he answered. "I'll be here late," he lied easily, his mind wandering to his tools and _retrieving_ his tools from Jenny and whatever they were going to do when he got to her house.

"Let me rephrase the question," Diane said. "You're coming home on time tonight. Copy?"

He narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth.

"I've got to _work_, Diane," he threw back carelessly.

"It can _wait_," she snapped. "I promise you. The dead can wait," Diane paused, as if giving him a moment to argue, and Gibbs just rubbed his forehead tensely. "We need to talk," she said coolly.

He grumbled under his breath and shrugged to himself again.

"I'll do my best," he agreed sarcastically.

"Leroy. It would be in your _best_ interest to _walk_ through the front door at six o'clock," she said firmly, her tone brittle and threatening. "If you do not, I can't promise that I'll be able to control my reaction."

He grit his teeth, trying to interpret that vaguely frustrating challenge the best he could in the span of a minute. He rubbed his jaw and glanced at his watch again; Jenny was waiting in the garage, and Decker and Burley were going to wonder where they hell they were.

"Fine," he agreed curtly.

She hung up on him. _She_ hung up on _him_. Without saying goodbye—that was a distinctly _un_-Diane move.

He threw his phone haphazardly back into its cradle and looked up as if praying to some benevolent God. He reached up and covered his mouth momentarily, standing still, bracing himself to deal with the coming day when the only prospect he had now was facing an irate wife when he got home.

He tried to convince himself he didn't know what the hell she was pissed about this time.

But he had a gut that said otherwise, and in his gut, he knew damn well that _she_ knew what he'd done.

* * *

Jenny was leaning against the car in the garage, looking at the ceiling. When she heard his footsteps as he approached, she began whistling the _Jeopardy_ theme song obnoxiously, lowered her head, and arched an eyebrow.

"What kept you, Boss?" she asked silkily.

He rolled his eyes and came around to the driver's side. He didn't answer. She kept the keys near her, licking her bottom lip thoughtfully.

"I've never seen you answer Her that promptly," she remarked.

She was fishing, and they both knew it. She thought he wasn't going to answer, but he surprised her; he looked down at his feet and shrugged.

"I can't get my tools tonight," he said gruffly.

He offered no explanation, and in a fierce flare of jealousy, she frowned and lashed out:

"You grounded?" she asked sarcastically. "Late to pick her up, so you've got to be home on time?" she scoffed.

"Got a crime scene to get to, Jen," he said dangerously, warning her to knock it off.

She tightened her jaw and lifted the keys, swinging them around her finger.

"I'm driving," she said stiffly, jingling the keys at him. She turned and gracefully got into the car, slamming the door. She waited for him to storm around and get in the other side, and she grit her teeth together, trying to stave off a sick feeling in her stomach. She swallowed hard and straightened her shoulders, putting the keys in the ignition as he shut the door.

She started to rev the engine, and then stopped, and pulled the keys back. She rested her hands on the wheel and looked straight ahead. She felt him look over at her in annoyance and she licked her lips.

"Did you sleep with her?" she asked.

"What?" Gibbs snapped.

"Did you have sex with your wife?" she demanded.

He had said he wasn't _doing_ that. He'd said it when he was so pissed about her sleeping with Rick Colter. She had told him he had no right to be angry with her, and she had even less of a right to be angry with him but this—this _hurt_.

He didn't answer, and it hurt more; it twisted her gut. His _lack_ of answer was answer enough.

She jammed the keys back into the ignition and started the car, waiting a moment for things to get warmed up. He stared straight ahead; falling into his signature, stony silence, and Jenny bit her lower lip, steeling herself in the same stoic manner. She backed the car out swiftly and headed for the beltway.

She had never anticipated a man sleeping with his _wife_ could wound her so badly.

With that constricting feeling of hurt came the daunting suspicion that this affair was about to blow up in her face.

She thought to herself ironically, _I've got a bad feeling about this_.

* * *

She had finished the laundry, gotten dressed, and gone to pick up _those papers_ from Emma. She had treated herself to a mani/pedi on a bit of a hysterical whim, and she had returned home, where she settled herself at the kitchen table with a folded basket of whites, a glass of wine, and a thick file of legal jargon.

And that is where Diane Gibbs was still sitting when her husband walked through the door at six o'clock sharp.

He slammed the door in his usual manner and all evidence in his demeanor indicated he had no idea of the storm waiting for him. She afforded a short, curt glance at him, and looked back at page six of the papers unfolded in front of her, lifting her wine glass at the stem and taking a steadying sip.

She felt rather than saw him stalking over to her; she kept cool and calm.

"What's so damn important, Diane?" he asked roughly, and the irreverent tone almost set her off—but she was stronger than that.

She licked her lips and put the wine glass down, looking up slowly.

She smiled.

It didn't touch her eyes, and it was dangerous.

* * *

The way she looked at him actually defined the phrase '_if looks could kill'_, and that was hard to ignore, but what he really noticed about his wife this evening was how _stunning_ she looked. Considering it was her day off—and she'd been in sweats when he left this morning—that fact alone was enough to give him pause.

He stood waiting, tense; glaring at her with a silent demand that she—they—get this over with.

Foolishly, he still entertained the thought that this was something else—_maybe_ this wasn't what he thought it was, maybe she didn't know—

Diane reached into the laundry basket daintily and plucked out his wrinkled white formal button down, and his heart sank. She shook out the shirt roughly and leaned forward, her elbows on the table, showing him the collar. Her manicured nails framed the incriminating smear of lipstick stiffly.

He reminded himself curtly that he had the right to remain silent, and that is exactly what he did.

Diane pointed to the lipstick more concretely and then picked up a piece of paper emblazed on with dozens of smudges of lipstick on it.

"This is a gorgeous colour," she said coolly. "Imagine my surprise when I found it on your shirt and couldn't remember owning such a shade."

She waved the piece of paper at him vaguely.

"I went through every tube of lipstick I own looking for the one that matched."

She put the paper back down on the table and narrowed her eyes, holding up the shirt, her knuckles whitening a little. Gibbs still stayed silent, affording the lipstick a quick glance before looking back at Diane a little _too_ defiantly, considering his position. Her eyes flashed.

"It may seem paranoid to you, Leroy," she said icily, referring to her experiments with the lipstick, "but I wanted to be absolutely certain before I let you have it. This isn't mine," she pointed to the lipstick, digging her nail into the shirt, "and it sure as hell isn't Stan Burley's," Diane paused, and when Gibbs still said nothing, she slammed her hand down on the table. "Do I have to ask, or will you show me some goddamn _respect_ and _tell_ me its Jennifer Shepard's?"

Gibbs didn't answer. He narrowed his eyes at the lipstick-stained collar and tried to find some foothold of control in the situation. He could shoot himself for being so unprepared for such an inevitable confrontation. He grit his teeth together and then threw his keys on the table; he reached up and rubbed his jaw. Diane knew he wouldn't boldface lie to her; she also knew how he worked.

She knew what his silence meant.

"Leroy," she barked. "_Is this Jennifer Shepard's lipstick on your shirt_?" she demanded acidly.

He considered stony silence again as a response; it was futile—and it was cowardly.

He met her eyes. He nodded.

She stared at him, and he watched the colour drain from her face, and the rage and hurt spring into her eyes, and he realized that she'd been hanging on to the minuscule _chance_ that he'd deny it. Her hand shook and she compressed her lips; he watched her throat move as she swallowed hard and she let go of the shirt like she'd been burned, pushing it away from her.

"You son of a bitch," she swore hoarsely. "Leroy you—you son of a _bitch_, you _fucking_ son of a _bitch_."

Her swearing was punctuated by catches in her words and he flinched at the pain in her voice. She wrenched the shirt back towards her and threw it at him violently. She leaned forward and put her hands over her face, twisting away from him a little, and then she yanked her hands away and breathed out harshly, biting her lip. She looked up at him and narrowed her eyes.

"I asked you if you were having an affair," she said. "I asked you flat out and you—you—did you _lie_ to me?"

"No," he answered curtly.

He didn't lie to her. He wasn't a liar.

He gripped the shirt tightly, and then threw it to the floor.

"It started after that," she asserted poisonously. "_When_?" she demanded. She didn't give him a second to answer before she went on: "When did it start? How long has this been going on?" she raised her voice harshly.

He lowered his hand to rest on the back of a kitchen chair, silently trying to decide what counted and what didn't—the first time he'd _slept_ with Jen, or the first time he'd kissed her—or, the first time he'd wanted her…?

"Answer me!" Diane shouted.

"June," he answered gruffly.

Her lips parted and she sucked in her breath as if she'd been struck. Her eyes fell closed briefly.

"Four months," she hissed. "_Maryland_," she snarled. "This started when your team went to Maryland. I should've—I knew it, I _knew it_ when she answered the damn phone in the middle of the night," Diane swore.

She chewed on her lip and put her chin in her hands anxiously; her hands were still shaking. He gripped the chair in front of him more tightly, just watching cautiously.

"So when you're working late, _that's_ where you've been? You've been with _her_? When you don't come home, you're sleeping with _her_? No wonder you smell like her all the time, she's all over you!"

Diane flung her hand out and looked at him in desperate disbelief. She swallowed hard.

"When you—were you—Leroy," she broke off, her voice breaking. "Were you with her when you flew back from Seattle early?" she asked hoarsely.

He didn't answer, but he pulled out the kitchen chair and sat down. He leaned forward on his knees, lowering his head heavily. He could not readily pinpoint a moment in his life when he'd been this _wrong_. This was not a situation he could navigate; no military training included a guidebook on what to do when your wife found out you were cheating on her.

She took her silence for what it was and stood up, shoving her chair against the table with a horrible, expressive loud slamming noise.

"I had that woman in my _house_, Leroy, I had her over for _dinner._ Do you have any idea how stupid that makes me look? I invited your _lover_ over for a barbecue—I looked her in the eye and I didn't know," Diane cried, throwing her hand out violently. "She could have had the decency to stay home! She—" Diane broke off and rounded on him, livid.

She snapped the file she'd had open closed and leaned on it on the table.

"Did you sleep with her in this house?" she asked curtly.

Gibbs looked up at her wordlessly. That was a question he chose not to answer; he couldn't find the words to tell her he'd had Jenny in the basement a few days ago. That had been stupid and reckless, and he didn't have the heart or the gall to voice that action to Diane. Her eyes flashed and her lips shook and she tilted her head back, shaking her head.

She looked back at him.

"In our bed, Leroy?" she demanded. "Did you fuck her in our _bed_?"

"No," he answered firmly, meeting her eyes.

"Where?" she asked.

"Jesus, Diane."

"_Where_?"

He rubbed his mouth, caught between a rock and a hard place. He could answer, or he could wait for her to drag this out until it came to blows—

"Basement," he grunted vaguely.

She stared at him and then leaned back, pushing her hair back. She looked away and folded her hands over her chest.

"The basement," she repeated nastily. Her voice cracked again. "Well, I was never part of your," her words dissolved into tears, "your _world_ down there anyway," she finished, stumbling over the words angrily.

She fell silent, succumbing to tears, and he lowered is head again, putting his palm up to his forehead. He didn't think he could stand to sit here with her while she cried, not when he knew that this time it was _all_ his fault—totally and completely and unnecessarily his _fault_. He'd rather she railed and screamed and physically attacked him.

He set his jaw. He tried to figure out where things were going to go from here. His teeth were still painfully clenched together and he fought the urge to bolt out of the house and disappear—back at work, to Jenny—_Christ_, he was going to have to tell _Jenny_ that Diane had found out.

"Were you going to tell me?" Diane asked suddenly, turning on him. She put a hand on her hip and gripped tightly. "Were you going to confess, or were you going to wait until I found out? What game are you playing?"

"It's not a game, Diane," he said with some annoyance, voluntarily speaking up for once.

She pounced.

"Really, Leroy? Because it feels like I've been played," she fired back shakily, tears still spilling down her cheeks. "You've made me think I'm paranoid, you've made me think I'm irrational, bitchy, you've made me doubt myself and _you're_ the one who's wrong! You—" she broke off.

She stared at him for a moment, searching for her next line of thought, and she reached up and pressed her hands to her eyes, pushing her hair back again. Her mascara was smeared and she swallowed hard.

"I had some comfort in thinking you were heartbroken because of Shannon and Kelly, I took solace in that! When you hurt me so badly and you made me so angry I could just justify it knowing you are so messed up over their deaths that you can't let me in but—but—what do I think now, Leroy? How do I comfort myself now?" she demanded desperately, raising her voice again.

He looked at her warningly, as if telling her not to bring them into this, and she shook her head furiously; no, they _were_ being brought into _this_. _They_ were as much a part of this as any of the living players were.

"It was hard enough coming in second to a ghost," she cried, "But finding out that I come in last versus a dead woman and a pretty young thing you've barely known six months? I'm your wife!" she held up her hand and pointed to the white-gold engagement ring on her left ring finer. "I'm your wife, Leroy, does this mean _anything_ to you?"

Marriage meant something to him. He couldn't explain what had happened. He hadn't consciously made the decision to cheat on his wife. He wasn't that guy, who just cheated to cheat and didn't give a damn. Sacred vows were sacred vows but Jen…meant something to him, too.

And he'd happened to meet her when he was already married.

"Say something!" she shouted at him, throwing her hands up. "Leroy, say something!"

He steeled himself.

"What do you want me to say, Diane?" he asked dully.

He straightened up a little and put his hands on his knees.

"Defend yourself! Make an excuse! Just say—" she broke off and swallowed tears, trying to steady her words. It wasn't working. "Say something to make me feel like I'm not…like I'm not _that_ stupid woman, apologize, try to—try to make me feel," she broke off again. "Better," she choked out, closing her eyes.

She sank back into her chair and covered her face, breaking into sobs in her hands.

He winced and looked at her uncomfortably. He couldn't touch her; he wouldn't dare offend her by trying to comfort her. There was nothing he could say to make it stop hurting, and he knew that. He knew because he could image the devastation he'd struggle with if Shannon had ever betrayed him like this—

"She's twenty-_five_," moaned Diane hoarsely, spitting the words sourly.

Gibbs remembered how annoyed Diane had been at the barbecue by men's propensity to go for younger women; he kept silent, and didn't remind her that she was eight years younger than him, and Jenny wasn't twenty-five. She was twenty-six. But Diane wouldn't know that she'd had a birthday last week, and he shouldn't broadcast that he knew.

"Is that where you were going to _work late_ tonight?" she asked weakly, staring down at the table.

She splayed her hand over the file on the table. He cleared his throat.

"I had to pick up my tools," he said neutrally.

"Right," she snarled. "I'm sure it was going to be an innocent little pit stop to _pick up your tools_." She scoffed and shook her head, biting her lower lip. She wrinkled her nose, composing herself a little. Her eyes were so red. "I have half a mind to pick them up for you," she lashed out ferociously. "It might make me feel better to take your hammer to that little whore's skull."

It was pretty violent, as far as violent threats went, and without thinking, he snapped right back at her.

"Back off, Diane, she isn't a whore," he growled.

She looked startled. Her mouth fell open and her eyes widened and she stared at him.

"This isn't her fault," he stated bluntly.

"You're going to sit there and _defend_ her?" Diane shrieked, bolting out of her chair.

Her movement upended the abandoned wineglass and sent both it and the laundry basket flying messily to the floor.

"She may not be the one who's _married_, Leroy, but she isn't faultless! She sure as hell isn't a saint! What kind of self-respecting woman goes after someone _else's_ husband?" Diane implored, her eyes flashing stormily. "By biblical standards _she'd_ be stoned!"

"This isn't the Bible, Diane!"

"Obviously, you cheating _asshole_," she retorted venomously. "You'd have a lot more fear of _God_ if it was!" She snatched up the files she'd been so carefully reading when he walked in and shook them. "As it stands, the only god you've got to fear is me, and you better get scared, Leroy," she threatened, and thrust the file down on the table in front of him. "I've had it."

She took a deep breath and pointed sharply at the file.

"I am sick of bending over backwards to make this work. I am sick of putting my heart and soul into holding this marriage together at the frayed edges and getting absolutely no input from you in return," she stopped to catch her breath and burst into tears instead, but still she plowed on: "I'm tired of worrying about you and using all my energy to hate you and going to bed miserable and doubting myself and feeling so insecure about how much you care about me! I can't do it anymore! I have tried so hard and sacrificed so much, Leroy, to understand you and to love you and to just try to make you understand that you don't have to be alone and to hurt so much and all you've done is kick me when I'm down and use me when you need a goddamn anti-depressant!"

She looked surprised at her outburst, and she shook her head, looking up to the ceiling.

She took a deep breath, and futilely wiped at her eyes, sniffling. She fixed her eyes on him again.

"I don't know who I am anymore," she said. "I should have left you," she said, and took another deep breath, "a long time ago. I should have known you could _never_ love me the moment I found Shannon's picture in your wallet. You can't love—you can't—"

She stopped talking and tilted her head, looking at him harshly. He looked back tensely, unsure what had given her pause. Her lip trembled and she bit it until it was steady, and he saw flecks of blood bloom around her teeth. She narrowed her eyes, her lashes thick and wet with tears, and she swallowed shakily, pursing her lips.

"Are you," she started uncertainly, almost hesitantly. "Leroy are you…are you in _love_ with her?" she asked in a low whisper, and it was clear in her voice that she desperately wanted his answer to be no.

She didn't want this to be about him having fallen for a woman who wasn't her; she wanted this to be about his inability to fill the hole Shannon had left. She wouldn't be able to stand it if it had just been _her_ he couldn't love. She wanted his answer to be _no_.

He didn't have an answer, though; he couldn't give her what she wanted. He didn't know; the question caught him off guard and was delivered like a cold slap to the face. A negative answer would be a lie—but so would a positive one? He was too ambushed, too defensive to process his thoughts right now, and _love_ was a snarled jungle he couldn't make sense of if he tried.

She looked away, biting her lip again, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"How could you do this to me, you bastard?" she asked, heartbroken, and the sound of her words just hit him too hard, and he felt guilt—he felt awful, and for an instant, he wished he could take it all back—but taking back all the misery he'd caused her would mean erasing most of their relationship. "How could you _do_ this to me?" she repeated hoarsely.

She turned to him and her lips trembled.

"I am _never_ going to recover from you!" she shouted.

She reached up and covered her mouth, turning her back to him. He leaned forward again, and rubbed his jaw. He reached for his keys and pushed them around aimlessly; he had nothing to say, and there was nothing he could do. There was a case at work he could go back to, but it wasn't urgent—it wouldn't consume him, numb him, and he didn't think there was enough bourbon in the world to take care of that tonight.

Diane heard him move the keys and whipped around, terror flashing through her eyes, as if she were afraid he was leaving. She stared at his hand for a long time, and then she took a deep breath, and ran her manicured nails through her hair again. She crouched down and picked up the laundry mechanically and then placed the basket back on the table. She looked at the spilled wine, and then looked like she'd break down again.

"I'll clean it up," Gibbs spoke up gruffly.

She looked over at him bitterly.

"It's your mess," she said abrasively. "I'm just a casualty."

She held her head as if she were in pain and then licked her lips, taking a few deep, calming breaths. She picked up the shirt that had started the unraveling of it all and held it in her hands, glaring down at the lipstick stain. She let out a long breath full of frustration and despair.

"I'm going to cool down," she announced bluntly. I'm going to Emma's. When I come back, I want you gone. I should make you stay here and live with me and suffer but I can't—I can't _stand_ knowing you're thinking of that—of _her_. I need a few days to figure out what I'm going to do. Get out," she said edgily. "Get out, and hope she'll take you in."

He sat up, looking at her in disbelief for a second. He was frustrated and tense and sorry, and he felt backed into a corner and he had to find some way to get some of the pent up emotion in his muscles _out_ of his body, and the audacity of her kicking him out of his house was the only thing he saw for a minute, rather than his sin and his betrayal, and he skated into the middle of thin ice.

"You can't kick me out of my own house, Diane," he barked.

His boat was here, his bourbon was here, Kelly was here—

-it didn't matter. The statement was a fatal mistake.

Diane looked at him with pure hatred simmering in her eyes, and then she was gone, getting her purse from the kitchen, storming around for her keys, and she came back and snatched the divorce papers off the kitchen table and then violently threw them against his chest, her hand hiding him with more force than he ever thought she could exert.

She looked him dead in the eye, and for the first time since he'd come home, he saw the blaze of a bitter fight burning there.

"We'll see if it's still your house when this divorce is over," she snarled.

And she left him, that threat hanging like a storm cloud in the air, holding a file of divorce papers and contemplating the mere idea of losing the house his little girl had grown up in for those few precious years.

* * *

He didn't waste any time sitting alone in the house after Diane stormed out; it would have been too much to bear. The atmosphere was poisoned and dark, and with Shannon's ghost lingering over his shoulder and making him feel sick and guilty, he couldn't take it—and he left.

He didn't take a bag or anything; he refused to put Jen in that position, but he did run to her.

Where else would he go? She was the third party involved in this.

He parked out on the street in his usual spot and trudged up the drive with his hands on the pocket, and he knocked on the door, and waited.

She opened it lazily and quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I though," she began, leaning in the doorway, "the Old Lady said you couldn't come out and play tonight."

She looked _good_, in lazy, comfortable after work clothes—bare feet, shorts, and a loosely clingy shirt that didn't quite fit how it was supposed to over her stomach, so it bared a strip of skin.

He didn't crack a smile at her little tease, though, and she straightened a little, tilting her head.

"I can grab your tools real quick if you're just here to pick them up," she said slowly, uncertainty flickering briefly in her strong eyes.

"Jen," he said.

She straightened, and reached up to her neck, massaging herself gently. She looked mildly anxious, put on edge by his eerily calm, almost _admonishing_ tone.

"Jethro," she said quietly, mimicking his tone.

"Diane knows," he said bluntly.

He let it sink in. She bit her lip.

Jenny looked behind her, her hand still holding the back of her neck, and she lowered her eyes. He watched her throat move as she swallowed hard, and then she opened the door further and stepped aside, silently letting him in—giving him refuge.

* * *

Maria Feliciano was furiously shaking a martini in her posh, up-scale Alexandria apartment. She looked about ready to shake her arm off when her girlfriend laid an arm on her shoulder and shook her head.

"Calm down, babe," she muttered in a low voice, glancing back into the living room apprehensively. "She wanted it shaken, not brain-damaged."

"Sorry," muttered Maria flippantly, with no sincerity. She snatched up a crystal martini glass and popped open the top of the shaker, tightening her lips furiously. "How am I supposed to calm down?" Maria asked, gesturing to their living room in frustration. "How am I supposed to be _calm_ about her crying her eyes out on our couch like that?" she demanded.

Emma Pierce leaned over and craned her neck into the living room. Diane was still curled up on the couch, but only her feet could be seen from Emma's vantage point. Emma sighed heavily and shrugged, patting Maria's shoulder.

"She'll be okay," Emma said.

"Em, I've never seen anyone that upset over a relationship," Maria retorted quietly, straining Diane's martini into the glass. "She hasn't _stopped_ crying since she got here. She's going to get _sick_. And she's not sixteen, she's thirty-two. This is horrifying."

"Ease up. It's a pretty hard hit to find out your husband's cheating," Emma said defensively.

"How would _you_ know?" retorted Maria. She smirked, and then went on: "I don't mean it's horrifying she's acting like this, I mean it's horrifying that she's in so much pain because of that," Maria slapped the bottom of the shaker to get the last dregs of alcohol out "_man_," she spat venomously.

Emma opened the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Advil for Diane's headache, nodding in agreement.

"Can I give her a valium with this?" Maria asked, holding up the martini and looking longingly at the medicine cabinet.

Emma laughed.

"It isn't nineteen-sixty," she retorted, shaking her head. "You can't drug her."

"Did anyone tell her husband it isn't the sixties anymore?" fired off Maria, bristling. "From what I hear that asshole is nothing but a misogynistic lying cheating prick and he's taken Diane completely for granted—_Jesus_, I _hate_ men," Maria broke off, tapping her foot. "They're just raised in this goddamn patriarchal bubble that tells them women are their property and—and dammit, Em, your friend wouldn't be so hurt if she'd just taken up with a woman."

"Maria, Maria," Emma said, laughing quietly and reaching out to take the martini. She raised her brow and placed her hand in a placating manner on her girlfriend's shoulder. "Rein in the man-hate, okay? I don't think that's what Diane needs to hear right now," she said, smiling. "Lesbians break hearts too," she added, raising a brow.

Maria glared at her and muttered under her breath, leaning back against the counter. She glanced towards the living room, shaking her head angrily.

"I'm going to loose one of the rabid dogs from the clinic on him," she growled threateningly.

Emma just smiled and pecked her cheek, giving her a nod. She appreciated Maria's hospitality in letting Diane so unexpectedly crash in their apartment. Maria and Diane knew each other as passing acquaintances, and Maria was often uptight and stubborn about guests or sudden plans.

She carried the headache meds and the martini into the living room and sat back down on the couch where her friend was laying with a box of half-empty tissues.

"Maria thinks I'm pathetic?" Diane asked as Emma held out her hand to pass over the Advil.

"No," Emma said calmly. "You heard us?" she asked.

Diane nodded.

"Oh, you know Maria," Emma said. "She just gets easily pissed off by men, and a man is responsible for this, so…" Emma let the sentence hang and shook her hand a little. "Take the Advil, Diane, your head has to be killing you."

Diane blew her nose and sat up slowly, pressing her heel to her forehead. She pushed her hair back and took the pills, dry swallowing them. Emma handed her the martini and Diane held it delicately, swallowing shakily.

"I am pathetic," she mumbled angrily.

"You're not pathetic," Emma said firmly. "Your heart's broken."

Diane shrugged bitterly.

"Why should I let him make me feel this way?" she asked, looking down at the alcohol in her glass. "He cheated on me. Why should I waste," her voice caught, "my time?" she finished, tears filling her eyes again.

Emma reached out and gripped Diane's shoulder tightly.

"You didn't give him permission to make you feel this way, Diane," she said earnestly. "You have no control over how you feel," she comforted.

Diane lifted the martini to her lips, closed her eyes, and drank it like a shot, flinching a little as it went down. She handed it back to her friend and leaned back, snatching another tissue from the box and holding it in her hand as if it would make her hurt less. Her lips trembled again and she lifted her hand to her mouth, pressing against her teeth.

She threw her hand out.

"I don't understand how I can still _love_ him!" she cried desperately. "I am so mad I can't see and I _hate_ him but I still wish he hadn't done this," she tried to explain, tears sliding down her cheeks. "He betrayed me. He broke his vows, he's infuriating, he's impossible to talk to but he's a good man, Emma, I know I sound crazy," she broke off, blowing her nose, catching a new breath. "But he is. He _is_ a good man. When we were dating he was—he was different, he was charming and sexy and he just swept me off my feet," she flung her arm around as if trying to grasp for something she'd lost and then leaned forward, shaking her head and burying her face in her hands.

Emma stroked her hair, giving her a sympathetic look. She knew there was not much else she could do but her here to listen while Diane tried to sort out the devastation of her emotions.

Diane moaned and shook her head.

"I used so much energy defending him to my family and now there's this and I can't face having to tell them we're getting divorced and it's because he was cheating on me—he was _cheating_ on me! With his employee—God, Emma, it's so _unoriginal_, it's so _nauseatingly_ cliché."

"I know," Emma soothed.

Diane sniffled, tearing her tissue in half and looking down at it. She looked over at Emma with bloodshot eyes.

"You know," she said hoarsely. "Emma, you know he was the _only_ man who ever dated who didn't give a damn that I made more money than him," she confessed. "He never bat an eyelid at it. He just—he just didn't _care_. Other men were so passive-aggressive and immature about that but Leroy just…he used to show me off, Em," she said weakly, remembering with some nostalgic pain. "He was _proud_ I was successful."

Diane rubbed her eye, and then looked at her hand, frowning. The mascara that had once graced her lashes was now all over her hands—and probably smeared on her face, as well. She hadn't brought any toiletries with her—not that it would be useful; she couldn't predict how long she'd been in this weepy state.

"What did he say when you confronted him?" Emma asked gently.

"Nothing," Diane answered, shaking her head. "He didn't say _anything_," she murmured, hurt. "He answered questions if I asked them. He didn't defend himself, which I guess I appreciate," she said. "He spoke up when I called _her_ a whore," Diane remembered, her voice going up angrily. "He spoke up to defend _her_."

"Well, I don't think this other woman is necessarily a whore," Emma began—and Diane turned on her.

"_Yes_ she _is_," she snapped bluntly. "She's a juvenile, heartless, home-wrecking little _whore_ and the _last_ thing I wanted to hear was him _defending_ her!" she burst out violently.

Emma fell silent and just nodded supportively.

"You want another drink?" she asked.

Diane shook her head.

"I'll never stop," she murmured, and then nodded at the glass. "My compliments to Maria, though."

"You're welcome!" Maria yelled tensely from the kitchen. "I can make one for your husband and poison it if you like," she offered.

Diane tried to laugh, but it came off as a weak smile. She just shook her head. Emma raised her eyebrow teasingly.

"She's serious, you know," she said. "Maria's got total access to euthanasia drugs at the clinic."

"I don't want to kill him," Diane mumbled. "I just wish he'd feel this awful," she said uncertainly, and then she closed her eyes tightly, and shook her head, tears overwhelming her again. "But he _has_ felt this awful. He has. And it really isn't an excuse for him to be such a bastard, but," Diane stopped, and she fell silent, refusing to say anything else.

She took another tissue and leaned back, bringing her knees up on the couch and hugging them to her chest. She took a few minutes to calm down, hopefully staving off tears for a good while. She swallowed hard and licked her lips; the headache medicine wouldn't kick in for a while and her skull was pounding. She felt sick to her stomach from crying.

"It's like I knew, I _knew_ something was going on I just…I didn't want to believe it," she admitted to herself. She pushed her hair back, rubbing her temples, and bit her lip, keeping her mouth and voice steady. "I should have left him months ago," she said again, gritting her teeth together. "He hasn't appreciated me in a long time."

"This whole marriage has been a struggle, Diane," Emma said. "Just watching, as an outside party, I haven't known what to think. When you met him, and when you married him, I've never seen you so happy," she paused, "but it all kind of spiraled down and I—well, I don't know what to tell you, sweetheart."

"You've got to do what's healthiest for you," Maria piped up, coming into the living room.

She perched on the couch next to Diane.

"Even if for some _unfathomable_ reason you still love him," she added bitterly. "Love is not all you need, you got that, girl?" Maria asked fiercely.

"I wish—" Diane began. She swallowed, and closed her eyes. "I wish Dr. Mallard had never introduced us," she asserted dully. "I just want to _throttle_ him, I want to castrate him!" she growled, reaching for another tissue.

"It's going to get better," Emma said. "You're going to get through this."

"It doesn't feel like it," Diane said, looking over at her faithful friend intensely. "It feels like drowning."

"I'm going to _kill_ him," Maria growled, and stood up, storming off into the far reaches of the house.

Emma laughed lightly.

Diane looked down at her hands, clutching the tissues still. She looked at her manicured nails and compressed her lips, clenching her teeth again. She lifted her Kleenex to her eyes and blotted, closing them tiredly.

"You know what's the worst, Emma?" she asked quietly, her words forced out of a sore throat.

"Hmmm?" prompted Emma, shaking her bottle blonde hair back and leaning closer.

Diane turned and met her eyes listlessly, tears sparkling there again.

"I think he's in love with her," she said thickly. "I thought—at first—I thought it might be just a way for him to try and find solace for his own issues but I—I think he _loves_ her."

Diane's face crumpled and she let out a tense breath, folding her arms across her stomach tightly and hugging herself.

"And that hurts more than anything because I'm starting to think he never loved me," she sobbed quietly, "and I don't know what that woman has that I don't but it's _killing_ me that he fell in _love_ with someone else."

"Oh, Diane," Emma said softly. She touched the redhead's shoulder. "Don't compare yourself to her, don't do that. It isn't about…things like that," she tried to find the words to comfort, but she knew there was no way to do this.

Emma pulled Diane towards her and hugged her, letting Diane rest her head on her shoulder.

"Why do you think he loves Je—_her_, this girl?" Emma prodded, her brow furrowing.

Diane shrugged, pressing her forehead into Emma's shoulder firmly.

"I saw it in his eyes," she said dejectedly. "I don't know if he understands it. He doesn't let himself feel that anymore but—but I've seen everything in his eyes, and then tonight I saw something I couldn't identify and it's—it's because he doesn't feel that way about me," she said brokenly.

She reached up and pushed her hair back, covering her face with her hands.

"And he never has. He _never_ has."

* * *

In a surreal twist, he found himself sitting at Jenny's kitchen table the same way he'd been sitting at his own—right down to Jenny standing across from him gripping the chair in front of her. The difference was he didn't feel threatened here; he felt much more at ease.

Jenny hadn't said anything since she'd let him in and followed his slow path to the kitchen, but finally, she spoke:

"Did you tell her?" she asked.

She didn't know what she wanted to answer to be—if he'd told Diane, shouldn't he have run that by Jenny first? If Diane had found out, wouldn't it be…worse?

"No," he answered shortly.

She was relieved immediately; she realized in that very second that if he'd told his wife voluntarily, that would exert too much pressure—that would make it seem as if he was jumping straight from Diane into a full-blown relationship with Jenny and _Jenny_…didn't know if she could handle it.

"How did she—"

"Your lipstick," Gibbs interrupted.

He'd known exactly what she was going to ask. Jenny bit her lip.

"Oh."

Her brow furrowed.

"Where?" she asked.

"My collar," Gibbs retorted tensely, giving her a look. "From the night we had sex in my car," he snapped, accusatory.

She swallowed, and elected not to respond to his biting comment.

"I need a drink," she muttered.

She turned on her bare heel and left the room, stalking to the study for the strongest alcohol she owned. She detested the idea of using her father's beloved scotch for something this sordid, and tequila had screwed her over too many times to be trusted, so it was for the bourbon Gibbs had introduced her to that she went.

She took the bottle and two crystal tumblers with her back into the kitchen and poured a copious amount into each glass. She slid one across the table to him, and cradled one in her palms protectively. She hesitated, and then seemed to change her mind and she drank down the entire glass of bourbon swiftly—and it incinerated her throat. She closed her eyes, pressed her fingers to her lips, and then sat down heavily.

Her tumbler clinked onto the table ominously.

She leaned forward.

"Was she upset?"

Gibbs gave her one of his signature looks, and she flushed—what was she thinking? Was she _upset_? Was his wife _upset_ that he was sleeping with another woman? Of all the _stupid_ questions she'd asked in her life.

Frustrated with his silence and unable to fight off the escalating feeling of panic creeping over her, she held her hand out and ran her finger around the rim of her empty glass, looking at him pointedly.

"What happened?" she asked, exasperated.

He had to say _something_.

Gibbs tilted his head stiffly and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

"Think she's gonna burn my boat," he joked dryly, taking a stoic sip of bourbon.

She didn't think it was funny.

"Jethro."

"She kicked me out," he said, following up her admonishment once he'd swallowed. He looked at her like it was obvious. His eyes were dull; unhappy. "She yelled, Jen, she swore. She cried," he snapped. He took another sip of bourbon. "She cried a lot," he muttered hoarsely.

Jenny looked away, biting the inside of her lip unsteadily. She felt sick to her stomach and chilled with confusion and fear. She felt unstable and guilty but simultaneously she couldn't shake the light feeling of _relief, _relief that the lying and the sneaking and the clandestine was over.

Because it had never been as sexy as the movies made it seem.

Jenny rested her chin on her hand and looked at the drink in his hand.

"What are we going to do?" she asked quietly.

He raised an eyebrow.

"'We'?" he quoted skeptically.

She shrugged uncertainly.

"You, then," she corrected tensely. She didn't know what the correct pronouns were for his situation. "What happens now?"

He set his jaw, his muscle twitching again, and held the whiskey to his lips as if just inhaling the soothing scent of it. He drank a little more and shrugged, putting the tumbler down roughly. Jenny winced at the loud, breakable noise it made against her kitchen table.

"I get a divorce," he answered distastefully. "Pay another alimony," he muttered bitterly.

She smiled mirthlessly.

"She makes money," Jenny said vaguely. "You shouldn't owe her alimony."

Gibbs scoffed and gave her a look. He'd had more experience with divorce than she had.

"I committed adultery," he said curtly. "I'll have to pay."

"That's archaic," Jenny mumbled, her brow knitting in annoyance.

She toyed with the idea of pouring another drink, but refrained for the time being.

"She kicked you out?" Jenny asked, looking over at him again.

He nodded, picking up his bourbon again.

"Indefinitely?" Jenny tried to clarify.

"Didn't ask," he answered. "Figure until she finds somewhere to stay."

He drank the rest of the bourbon and gestured for the bottle; she slid it to him, tilting her head. She pursed her lips slowly.

"She doesn't want to stay in her home?"

"It's _my_ house," Gibbs answered gruffly. He poured himself another full glass of bourbon and put the cap back on, swirling the amber liquid around stiffly. "I own it."

Jenny nodded, listening. She watched him knock back another few mouthfuls of whiskey and set his glass back down, and he leaned forward on his elbows, shaking his head a few inches back and forth.

"She threatened to take it in the divorce," he said in a low voice. He looked angry and apprehensive at once, and shook his head again. "She can't take that house, Jen, my—"

He abruptly stopped speaking and lowered his head into his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his jaw. Jenny leaned across the table and rested her hand on his arm, squeezing softly. Talking about who was getting what in a divorce seemed to be moving too quickly; what if they reconciled?

The thought made Jenny shudder. Part of her wanted his marriage to be over. She didn't want to be the catalyst that gave Jethro and Diane a stronger marriage; it may be horrid, but if she was going to be a home wrecker she wanted to _wreck_ _the home._ She was worth it.

Jethro pulled his hand away from his face and rested it over hers, stroking her skin. He met her eyes and said nothing, sitting across from her with as little direction as she had. It getting late into the evening on a week night; they'd have to face work tomorrow with this shattered around their feet, and before that, they had to find some way to establish a course of action or some kind of _stability_.

He finished off the bourbon in his glass. She slid her hand down his arm pensively and clutched his hand, her fingers slipping into his. She bit her lip again, and then parted her lips.

"Why are you here, Jethro?" she asked huskily.

Did he want advice, comfort—sex? She didn't know what was appropriate to give and what was wanted—what would be accepted. She knew that she was trying to squash the tacky sense of triumph she had that he was _here_ with her _choosing_ her and his marriage was _over_ and she was overwhelmed and confused by the reckless hope that seemed to rear it's head out of nowhere.

Hope for what, for a _life_ with him? That was im—_impossible_. Wasn't it?

He stared at her hand in his.

"'Easy' comes to mind," he answered gruffly.

"Easy?" she repeated, her voice cracking unexpectedly, suddenly hoarse. "You think this is _easy_?"

He glared at her silently; bluntly.

"It's not _easy_, Jethro. Maybe it's easy for you. But not for me. Not for Diane."

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"I didn't mean—it isn't _easy_ on me, Jen," he snapped, nettled by the accusation. "You're familiar, uh, you make things—_better_," he broke off, glaring; even he didn't seem to understand what he was trying to put into words. His eyes flashed harshly and he switched gears: "You're going to take _Diane's_ side?" he barked.

She snatched her hand away, taken aback by the accusation. She grit her teeth together.

"It isn't a matter of taking sides! There's no argument as to _who_ is in the wrong!" she burst out. "I don't want you to be with her, Jethro, _I _want you! But I don't have to _like_ her to put myself in her shoes and understand how she must feel. And it can't make it any better for her knowing that you ran straight to _me_!"

"Where the hell was I supposed to go, Jen?" he asked aggressively, raising his voice. "You think I should show up on Ducky's doorstep? _Burley's_? You're involved in this!" he shouted.

"I know I'm involved—I'm tangled _up_ in this! I'm not saying I don't _want_ you here I just asked why," she fired back earnestly. "What's your reasoning, what are you thinking—but god_damnit_, I don't know _why_ I thought you'd tell me."

She leaned back violently in her chair and covered her mouth, tearing her eyes away from him. She could feel him practically glaring a hole into her cheek and she tried to ignore it as best she could while she composed herself. She swallowed.

"I just want to know," she began in a pristinely controlled tone, "if you're here because you want to be or because you have nowhere else to go."

"Could've crashed at Fornell's, Jen," he answered grittily. "Could've booked a hotel room."

She nodded to herself slowly, calmed by his answer. She rubbed her bottom lip with her finger and then lowered her hand and her head, her eyes finding the bourbon bottle and focusing on that. She stood up and turned her back, placing a hand on her hip and hanging her head.

"Are you okay?" he asked offhandedly, sitting up.

He was wary of her hiding her face from him.

"Hey," he said, hitting his hand on the table. "Jenny, are you okay?"

"Shut-up for a minute," she said, surprised she'd have to tell the master of monosyllabic conversation to shut _his_ trap. "I'm fine. I just," she stopped, and lifted her head to the ceiling this time. "I don't feel good about myself right now."

He leaned back in his chair. He frowned and stared at her back, at the rigid frame of her shoulders. He rubbed his jaw and set his shoulders back.

"It isn't your fault," he told her bluntly. "I shouldn't have put you in this position," he snapped, almost to himself.

"Don't be a martyr. I had a choice and I made a bad one," she retorted, her back still facing him. Her hair moved as she pushed it back, and she lowered her hand from her hip and crossed her arms in front of her.

He clenched his teeth sourly. If Diane had just left him while he was hunting Kyle Boone this never would have happened—what the _hell_ was wrong with him, he couldn't blame Diane for his mistakes. He clenched his fists, realized he still had his wedding band on, and wrenched it off. He threw it into the crystal tumbler with a haunting _clink_.

That caught Jenny's attention; she swung around and looked at the ring, staring at it from an odd, twisted angle, her eyes narrow. Her mouth was compressed tightly; her nostrils were flared tensely. He looked up at her and stumbled through another wave of annoyance at Diane mixed with a headache of confusion. He didn't think of Jenny as a mistake.

"We screwed up, Jethro," she said dully. "We really screwed up."

He nodded. There wasn't much else to say; _screwed up_ pretty much covered it.

She snorted derisively, a sarcastic smirk touching her lips. She tore her eyes away from his ring, sitting in the bottom of his whiskey-sticky tumbler, and she came around the table, perching on the edge of it in front of him.

"I was so jealous of her," she said, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "You're so unhappy with her and I was smug that you…and now I just, I feel guilty," she paused, and met his eyes. "And I feel relieved," she confessed shakily.

She tilted her head up, lifted her hand, and brushed at her cheek.

"Don't," he said apprehensively, leaning forward. He touched her thigh, slipping his hand between her legs to get her attention. "Hey," he shook her knee. "Don't cry."

She blinked at the ceiling.

He stood up and stepped up to her, his legs pressing into hers. He ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders and then touched her neck, pushing her hair back and looking at her seriously.

"Jen," he implored tensely. "Please don't cry," he asked of her.

It was the rare use of _please_ that gave her the strength to suck it up; she swallowed the tears down, and instead, reached up to rest her hands on his and leaned forward, throwing her forehead against his chest. He pressed his lips to her temple and shifted his feet, moving closer.

"You okay with me stayin' here?" he asked gruffly.

She nodded, her head moving on his chest. She slipped her hands up his arms and wrapped them around his shoulders; she tilted her head up and pressed her lips to his, staking her claim, and sealing it with a kiss.

* * *

She woke up much too early, and that sort of thing tended to happen when something out of the ordinary took place in her life.

She woke up happy, and that unnerved her—though she didn't question it.

She rolled to look at her clock, and his sleeping form obstructed her line of sight; blinking heavily, she rose up on her elbow and checked the time. Two hours until her alarm for work went off. Two hours for her to lie in bed with Jethro without the weight of his marriage hanging over her head.

He had been over in the mornings before, but it wasn't like this; it had always been rushed, quickies before work that left them both a little out of breath and unprepared.

She woke up happy because for a little while—if only for two hours, perhaps—she could relax and call this the eye of the storm.

Jenny shifted delicately onto her back and looked over at Jethro, her eyes tracing the muscular contours of his bare shoulders. He didn't have anything to sleep in—he didn't have anything here except for her. That, and the whiskey he'd contributed to her alcohol stores. She doubted that bottle had made it through the night, however.

She had left him alone for a while last night, unsure how to navigate their dramatically changed relationship, and she'd gone to bed—and when he came up, he'd smelled like alcohol and he hadn't seemed steady on his feet. She had never known Gibbs to have a hangover, but she would be good money that this morning would be hell on his head.

It was remarkable, how much the discovery of one secret could alter the foundations of their affair with only disjoined words as simple as '_Diane knows'_.

She thought it would be cruel to wake him if he was in the grips of a bourbon-induced wasted sleep, but then, she knew it would be cruel to let the blaring of her alarm clock to wake him up; she rose up again and maneuvered a little, leaning over him to turn the thing off, and she knew he must have been drunk if that didn't wake him—because Marines slept too lightly to have women jostling them around leave them undisturbed.

He rolled onto his back and twisted the covers under him. His brow was furrowed.

She considered just curling up next to him and really sleeping with him, but she didn't know how comfortable he would be with that. She pushed her hair out of her face and leaned over him, watching his chest move soundly for a moment before she lowered her head and trailed her lips down his sternum.

She went slow, savoring the warmth of his skin, and she smiled into his navel when she felt his breathing change. He slipped his hand into her hair and tangled his fingers, tugging gently. She resisted half-heartedly for a moment, and then relented, letting him pull her back against his shoulder and the pillows.

She turned onto her side and wound her leg up in his, bending her knee against his thigh, and let her head fall back, her mouth resting against his shoulder. He looked over at her and blinked, raising his other hand to rub his forehead slowly.

"You were in for a treat," she murmured into his skin. "I haven't woken a man up _that_ way since college."

He laughed, a deep, groggy rumble in the back of his throat. He glanced over at the clock.

"S'four o'clock," he observed blearily.

"Mmm," she murmured. "Noemi won't be here for two hours."

He looked at her, his face unreadable, and then shifted up on his arm and lowered his mouth to hers, giving her a deep kiss that made her catch her breath and close her eyes and shift her whole body towards him. He still tasted like whiskey, and he smelled like his basement; sawdust.

She breathed in, and he kissed harder, as if he thought he could substitute himself for oxygen—and damn, she almost believed that were true. She eased back a little to take a deep breath, and though he allowed it, he kept his lips close, and his hand slid under the covers to her thighs. She leaned up, navigating through the tangle of sheets and arms to take her panties off for him, and he took them and tossed them off the bed, pulling her back down half-under him aggressively.

"Are you still drunk?" she asked, a little amused.

He shook his head, his lips brushing hers again. His fingers trailed up the inside of her thigh much too slowly for her taste. She had half a mind to reach down there and teach him a thing or two about stimulation.

"Head's killin' me," he said gruffly.

"How much of that whiskey did you drink?"

"All of it," he admitted.

"Ah," she laughed softly. "So the great Leroy Jethro Gibbs does get," she paused, her lashes fluttering, as his hand inched higher, "hung-over," she managed to get out. He glared at her, and captured her mouth again in that same sort of spine-tingling kiss.

She shifted her hips towards him, acquiescing to what he was offering; he pushed his arm under her shoulders and pulled her closer, kissing, touching, and taking advantage of the early hour and the unfathomable lack of stress in the atmosphere. Gibbs rested his knee in-between her legs, his leg pinning her down, and shifted it up until it was almost pressing where his hand was. She moaned, turning into the kiss more, and when he applied pressure, started to move his hand _and_ his knee against her, she parted her lips and gasped into his mouth, and he moved his tongue against hers smoothly.

She gripped his shoulder tightly, letting her head fall back, trying to catch up on the breath he'd stolen. She knew he was watching her, and she reveled in it. He _teased_ her until it damn near _ached_, his fingers lingering where she needed but refusing to take the plunge; he kept moving his knee just slightly when she tried to find release there. She moaned huskily and rested her head against his neck, breathless, too hot to be tangled under all of these covers.

She mumbled his name in a husky plea, and he shifted towards her, his thin cotton boxers doing nothing to hide his arousal. She closed her eyes, breathing in sharply, and almost held his breath while he drew his hand over her again. He moved a finger inside her and she whimpered, clenching her jaw tightly and letting out a breath.

She shook her head, arching towards his touch with a sense of futility.

"It's not enough," she said, her voice low and seductive.

His hands were good, rough and gentle at the same time, but it was nothing compared to—

"What do you want?" he asked in a low growl, mouth brushing her jaw.

"You," she answered, her hand sliding down his shoulder to his abdomen, feeling how tight the muscle was, as she sought to make him need her as badly as she needed him right now. He moved his finger in a come-hither motion and she shuddered, still falling short. "You, Jethro, _you_," she said aggressively. "Inside me."

"I am inside you," he muttered smugly, moving his finger again.

She moaned again in frustration, pricking her nails into his stomach, sliding her hand lower and _lower_. She leaned up though her arm was weak from being trapped under them; her body tightened and he was forced to pull his hand back a little.

She leaned over him, trailing her lips up the line of his jaw to his ear.

"I want," she said slowly, her butterscotch voice washing over him, "your cock," she breathed, "inside me."

Under the covers, he retracted his hand, and she felt it knock against hers at the hem of his boxers. She kicked the sheets back, and pushed at the damn things while he maneuvered to get them off, and those few movements were quick and urgent, and then he had her on her back and breathless underneath him, sheets haphazardly tangled around their feet and knees, and he was attempting to navigate lining up his hips with hers while he kissed her and—

"Jethro, oh, god, Jethro, oh, slow—oh _yes_," she gasped, a string of words that barely made sense.

-he slid into her with a groan, lowering his forehead to her shoulder, his hands gripping tightly to her arms, and she arched up to meet him, thrusting her head back. She lifted her knees a little and pushed her hands back through her hair shakily. She let out a slow breath, eyes fluttering, and her lips moved as if she were whispering a prayer of thanks.

He looked at her, she looked back, and reached out to press her palm against his shoulder, telling him wordlessly she wanted to feel it again—and _again_, slow like that. He complied, bracing his palms on the bed next to her shoulders, and she moaned softly, biting her lip. She ran her hands down his chest and over his back, fingertips dragging down his spine, feeling his muscles flex and move with every unhurried thrust.

She could get used to this.

He kissed her shoulder, his mouth lingering in the dips of her clavicle, languidly finding its way up the column of her neck, tasting sweat and skin, until he reached her mouth again and she kissed him breathlessly, savoring his lips and the movement of his tongue as much as she craved the rhythm of his hips and the press of his chest against hers every time he moved.

She lifted her knees a little more and squeezed her muscles, and he groaned, breaking away from her kiss and giving her a sort of awed glare. She smirked at him and tilted her head back again, arching her back at what turned out to be the _perfect_ instant; he buried himself in her, bottomed out for a moment, and the heat in her abdomen just seemed to _spill; _she surrendered to breathless gasping and quiet moans, letting him know exactly what he'd done to her.

The climax didn't snap-_crash_ through her like they were usually wont to do; it just radiated all over, hot and tense, making her heart race and her stomach tighten painfully. She threw her hands back, searching for something to cling too, sliding one through her hair and pulling. She closed her eyes, still able to do nothing more than breathe it out huskily in panting moans, and his moving again was only prolonging it.

She felt his teeth scrape her collarbone and his lips moved, he was saying her name or swearing or something against her, moving a little faster, a little more urgently, and she shuddered, finally managing to get a little relaxation as the fire died down, burned off slow, leaving her tight and pliable at once.

Gibbs groaned tensely, burying his forehead in her shoulder, and he abruptly pulled back and looked down at her, drinking the sight of her pinned under him, her head thrown back, neck exposed, biting her swollen lip, struggling to catch her breath, pulling her own hair. He touched her bottom lip with his thumb, stroking along the pouty curve, intoxicated, and she responded naturally, kissing his thumb, and then biting it gently between her teeth.

"Open your eyes," he ordered.

She did, meeting his gaze through her lashes, her face still flushed, and he savored that view, and her weak gasp of pleasure when he thrust a little harder.

Jenny licked her lips, content to let him ride out her afterglow; she gripped his shoulder and then rose up on her elbows with the intention of wrapping her legs around his waist; the shift elicited a low growl from the back of his throat and he touched her shoulder, pushing her back down, his lips crashing against hers. She kicked at the sheets and threw one leg around his waist and pressed her heel into his back, opening her eyes to the kiss.

He broke the kiss at that second, breathing harshly, his forehead knocking against hers gently, and this time, her climax _did_ snap-_crash_ through her—and she _wasn't_ ready for this one.

She cried out _loud_ and threw her head back, wrapping her other leg around his waist, ensuring he slammed into her, and he swore, his whole body going tense and tight and she knew he was coming just as hard as she was.

He groaned and shuddered and breathed out heavily, almost like he couldn't believe what had just happened, and he collapsed on top of her in a way that didn't crush her, but lent her the full enveloping warmth of him and let him relax. She tossed her head and let her legs slide off his back, stretching out and tangling them around his possessively.

She rested her palm on the back of his neck, and then she wasn't sure how long they laid there just trying to catch their breath, but she knew it was the best sex they'd ever head—and she couldn't _ever_ remember coming twice in a row without _actively_ trying to achieve that. She kissed his shoulder, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, and lazily enjoying the roughness of his unshaven face against her gradually drying skin.

God, they hadn't even bothered to slip her tank top off. It was wrinkled and sticky between them.

Jenny stretched, and yawned, widening her eyes alertly. He lifted his head and met her eyes, raising his eyebrows. She blushed, licking her lower lip slowly, and laughed softly; he just gave her the most _arrogant_ smirk she'd ever _seen_.

"That's one for the books," he quipped smugly, and she smiled, biting her lower lip.

"Jethro," she mumbled, almost _shyly_, with no intention of trying to take him down a peg, "that was," she searched desperately for the word, "amazing," she muttered, a little embarrassed that she was saying something so lame and…_Harlequin_.

He nodded and rose up on one arm to rub his jaw, clearing his throat and blinking. He started to move away from her, and she slid her hand down his side quickly, gripping the top of his thigh. She raised her eyebrow, parting her lips in a pout.

"Don't move," she murmured, lowering her other arm from above her head to rest against his neck.

She wanted him to stay right where he was for a while, inside of her, on top of her, warm and comforting and _hers_. He looked at her hesitantly, concerned she was going to be uncomfortable, and she just shook her head a little and brushed her knuckles against the stubble on his jaw. He met her eyes and settled back down, moving his hand down the bed to splay his palm against her lower back and hold her to him while he shifted so he wasn't putting the brunt of his weight on her.

She smiled at the absence of cold wedding ring against her back; she curled her toes and ran her thumb in circles on his thigh, cuddling up to his chest and muffling a soft laugh in his shoulder, against his heartbeat. He pressed his lips to her collar bone, running his tongue lingeringly over bite marks; she relaxed against him, and she forgot how sick and guilty and insecure she'd felt about herself last night because she was _one for his books_.

* * *

Stan Burley leaned back in his office chair and looked around covertly, keeping an eye out for either Gibbs or Shepard. They were nowhere in line of his sight, so he figured it was safe to do a little _gossiping_.

He wadded up a post-it note from his desk and chucked it across the bullpen at Decker. It smacked him square in the forehead and the senior agent looked up, frowning a little. He, too, glanced around, and when he realized they were alone, the frown faded and he leaned back, mimicking Burley's pose.

"Weird day," Burley remarked mysteriously.

"Not that weird."

"Pretty damn weird, Deck."

"Hey, it could get weirder," Decker said vaguely.

Burley looked at him skeptically, and Decker returned a sheepish look. They silently agreed it couldn't really get much _weirder_. Burley glanced around again casually, making sure they were alone.

"What's going on?"

"Hell if I know," Decker answered, shrugging.

Burley frowned, shooting a furtive glance at Gibbs' desk.

"Hey, let's ask Miller," Decker suggested.

"The last thing I want to do is go gossip with _Mar_-gah-_reht_," Burley retorted, glaring pointedly.

Decker smirked. There was bad blood between the scientist and the special agent, and it was a little amusing to watch Burley squirm about it. It was always a little amusing to watch Burley squirm—he wasn't ever very mature about such things.

"She wouldn't tell even if she knew," muttered Burley. "And she probably doesn't know."

"Well, what do we know?" Decker asked logically.

Burley leaned forward and snapped his hands, pointing accusingly at Gibbs' desk.

"We know Gibbs ate breakfast this morning," he said, looking skeptical. "The man never has anything but a damn gallon of coffee and this morning he had coffee and a breakfast bagel," Burley went on.

"Home-made bagel," Decker added pensively. "No fast food wrapper—and his coffee was in a travel mug." Decker narrowed his eyes thoughtful and smirked, nodding at Shepard's desk. "Red has a housekeeper," he remembered smugly.

"You think Shepard's maid packed Gibbs _breakfast_?"

"Uh, yeah," Decker answered, as if it were obvious. "That travel mug he had? Shepard's. Says 'Fort Campbell'. Gibbs was never stationed at Fort Campbell. It's an army base. Shepard's old man was army."

Burley pointed at Decker harshly.

"We'll discuss why you have so much dirt on Shepard later," he said seriously. "So he spent the night at her place—"

"—not that weird," supplied Decker logically. "They've come in together before, we can tell by—"

"—Shepard not wearing lipstick," Burley finished, nodding thoughtfully. He snapped again. "Ah, but this morning, she wasn't wearing it _and_ he hadn't _shaved_," Burley pointed out triumphantly.

"_That's_ when it got weird," Decker said solemnly, sitting forward and folding his hands in all seriousness. "You ever seen Gibbs unshaven, Stan?" he asked soberly.

"Nope."

"I did," Decker answered. "_Once_," he went on ominously, and lowered his voice. "After his first divorce."

Burley's eyes widened and he leaned forward as well, both eyebrows going up. He looked over at Gibbs' desk, then Shepard's, and narrowed his eyes very carefully as if he were mulling over the possibilities. Then he pointed flippantly between the desks.

"You don't think—"

"I don't know."

"No way," Burley said, shaking his head.

Decker shrugged, arching his brow.

"Gibbs wasn't wearing his ring this morning."

"Yeah, so? He wasn't wearin' it Monday, either. He left it at Shepard's. I saw her give it back to him—it's like they don't realize we're trained federal investigators," Burley scoffed.

"I'm a federal investigator," Decker said. "You're just damn nosy."

"Got to be nosy to investigate," Burley pointed out smugly. "You don't think—Deck, you don't think Diane busted them?" he asked.

Decker shrugged.

"Gibbs seemed less pissed," he said.

"Yeah he—well dammit, he was practically _not_ scowling," Burley noted, rolling his eyes. "But Diane busting them, that wouldn't make Gibbs happy, would it? That'd make his life a living hell?"

"Pretty sure Gibbs feeds off Misery, Stan."

"Hmm," muttered Burley thoughtfully. "I guess it'd mean he wouldn't have to sneak around with Shepard—_wait_," Burley broke off, sitting up ramrod straight and horrified. "You don't think he'll marry _her_?" he asked, pointing at Shepard's desk.

Decker laughed heartily.

"I don't think _she'll_ marry _him,"_ he retorted callously. "Gibbs is a serial groom though, who knows," he added with a shrug.

Burley shook his head, leaning back again. He propped his feet up on his desk and glanced up at the catwalk before MTAC—making sure Gibbs was still safely ensconced inside the soundproof room. He tilted his head back, still musing over the idea that there was drama unfolding within their very bullpen.

"That'd explain the stupid flirty smile on Shepard's face all morning," he said, a little too eagerly.

Thrived like a sixteen-year-old teen drama star, _that_ was Burley's reaction to gossip.

"And why Gibbs smells more like her than usual," Decker added sagely. "Hey, think she made him eat breakfast?"

"Nah, think he had to eat because they had sex all night," Burley answered roguishly. He rolled his eyes. "Those kids," he sighed in a mocking tone, and then threw his hand out. "When the hell did NCIS become _Chicago Hope_?" he asked, amused.

Decker stared at him.

"_Chicago Hope_ is a medical drama," he retorted.

"Yeah, but I mean the whole workplace soap thing," Burley clarified, and then raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "You watch it?"

"Nope."

"You knew it was a medical drama."

"Might've seen it once or twice."

"Yeah?" Burley asked, and glanced around furtively. He leaned forward rapidly and lowered his voice to a hiss. "How do you feel about Aaron and Karen?"

"Their names rhyme. It's weird," Decker answered quickly, and then glared at Burley. "Shut up, Stan," he said, louder.

There was no way he was being tricked into this—it was bad enough he was addicted to the damn medical drama, he didn't need everyone thinking he and Burley made a boy's night of watching it. Burley just smirked and sat back a little, satisfied. He picked up a pin and twirled it around deftly in his fingers. Decker looked at his watch, and Burley lifted his chin.

"Got that meeting with Morrow today?" he asked vaguely.

"Yeah, at four," Decker answered. "If Gibbs is ever done interviewing that agent in Hawaii," he muttered.

"Quit bitchin', you're gettin' a post in LA," Burley retorted lightly. "My next rotation's Agent Afloat," he groused.

Decker made a distasteful face and picked up a highlighter to go back to work.

"You think this means Gibbs'll be nicer from now on?" Burley asked.

Decker looked up skeptically.

"Shepard didn't make him any nicer when it started," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but then he was balancing two women and probably fighting with both of them—he, what d'you think he and Shepard fought about? Work?" Burley mused wickedly.

"Uh," Decker answered, patronizing Burley. "I'd say they probably had a few heated disagreements about Gibbs' whole _wife_ situation," he pointed out sarcastically.

Burley rolled his eyes and glared.

"What do you think they'll fight about now?" he asked, pressing the tips of his fingers together like a maniacal movie villain.

A heavy file collided with the back of his head and he jumped forward, startled, and reached back to rub the place, whirling around while Decker snickered in amusement.

She was standing behind him, leaning over the cubicle, glaring at him. The file of assault was still poised to hit him.

"How long have you—why didn't you—" Burley spluttered, giving an accusatory look to Decker for not having his back and then turning a mild, sheepish glare on Shepard.

"We fight about who gets to kill you," she deadpanned. "Loser has to hide the body. I'm ahead at the start of round two, but Gibbs—Gibbs can be," she paused and arched a brow suggestively. "Persuasive."

"Gross, Shepard," Burley muttered, snatching the file from her—he'd realized by now she was handing it to him, anyway.

"Don't stick your nose where it isn't welcome, Steve," retorted Jenny, stalking around into the bullpen and over to her desk.

She sat down and started pulling her research for the case out of drawers while Burley went over the lab reports she'd just come back with. He made a show of reading, and then slowly inched the file down towards his nose, glancing at Decker, and then focusing on the redheaded agent. Decker was covertly staring at her too—she still had a faint, light smile on her lips—and they thought they were being subtle until:

"What?" she snapped, looking up and somehow managing to catch the both of them with a single, cool, Gibbs-taught glare.

"Oh, c'mon, Shep," Burley said, chucking the file down. He held up his hands. "What's going on with you and," he flung his hand between her desk and Gibbs, falling silent.

"Throw us a bone," added Decker, for once in his life curious.

She glared at Decker—_usually_ her champion—and shook her head, ignoring Burley's wild gesturing at Gibbs' desk. She opened her file and sat back with it, neatly unfolding it on her knee and inserting the tip of a ballpoint pen between her teeth.

She refused to give into their teasing, their gossiping, or their wiles.

"I don't kiss and tell," she said, with coy ambiguity.

* * *

Gibbs went straight from MTAC to Autopsy, skipping the bullpen altogether. They had hit the ground running this morning, and he had to get Ducky's results on the body he'd opened this morning before he could allow Shepard and Decker to go question the suspects.

The doors to Autopsy swung open right as he stepped off the elevator, blasting him with the significantly cooler air. He noticed immediately that Ducky had a different agent's body out and open, and after a few moments of silence, he noticed that Ducky hadn't greeted him—and that set off alarm bells.

"Duck," Gibbs said cautiously, approaching calmly.

The medical examiner looked up and nodded courteously.

"Gibbs," he greeted. "I was expecting you a while ago," he remarked.

"Yeah, well, MTAC took forever," Gibbs growled, still annoyed with how long he'd been up their discussing and arguing about one of their cases that they were going to have to hand over to the damn _Coast Guard_. "You want me to come back?" he asked, nodding at the unfamiliar body.

"No, not at all," Ducky answered promptly, still staring into the abdominal cavity. "I've finished your autopsy; he's merely put away, that's all."

"What'd he tell you?"

"He informed me quite loudly that he did not commit suicide," Ducky answered firmly. "He was murdered. Someone held the gun to his head."

"No prints but his on the gun."

"Yes, well, then a _clever_ someone held the gun to his head," Ducky retorted somewhat curtly. "The angle could not have been achieved by a conscious Corporal Davids. He was drugged first, no doubt. Margaret's tests should confirm—Jennifer has them."

"She'll be happy," Gibbs muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Happy your corporal was murdered so violently?"

"Happy it wasn't suicide," Gibbs corrected. "Jen's been insisting he didn't kill himself," he said, rolling his eyes. "Just because the Corporal's son insisted he'd never commit suicide."

"Well, perhaps you should have listened to her. There are indeed some men who simply will not resort to suicide."

"Some things make a man consider it, Duck," Gibbs responded, and his friend looked at him with mild curiosity and concern, and Gibbs swore inwardly—he hadn't meant the voice that opinion, but Shannon had been on his mind all day…and there had been a time when he had been that man who thought there was no way to go on living.

"Women," Gibbs muttered, trying to get away from that threat of conversation.

"Yes. Speaking of _women_," Ducky said, finally looking up. He pointed with a silver instrument in his hand to Gibbs' left hand and peered at the agent through his plastic facemask. "What's happened between you and Diane?"

Gibbs shoved both hands into his pockets and narrowed his eyes. He grit his teeth together, caught off guard by Ducky's brazen question—the doctor was not usually so blatantly invasive with his personal questions. That, and it was disconcerting that Ducky had any inkling of what had only happened last _night_.

"Don't think that's any of your business, Duck."

"She's a very good friend of mine," Ducky responded, straightening up a bit.

"Doesn't matter."

"I introduced the two of you, Jethro!"

"Yeah, so?" Gibbs asked harshly. "She say somethin' to you?" he asked, tilting his head suspiciously.

Diane _would_ be the type to go screaming her story to any sympathetic ear that would listen.

"She called me and asked that we get lunch at my earliest convenience," Ducky answered. "It was very early this morning and she did not sound particularly well."

"What's that mean?" Gibbs snapped, scowling.

"To be frank?" Ducky asked sharply. "She sounded exhausted, and she did not make it through the conversation without tears."

Gibbs reached up and rubbed his forehead, unconsciously using his wedding ring-less left hand. He set his jaw tightly, doing his best to ignore the sick feeling he had in his gut from hearing how upset Diane _still_ was.

He held his hand up to Ducky.

"Duck," he said dangerously. "It's none of your business."

"Jethro, I've known this woman since she was in school," Ducky answered authoritatively. "I did not introduce the two of you so you could destroy a friendship I value greatly. She has made it my business," he said pointedly. "I am asking you what's happened to give you an opportunity to tell your side."

Gibbs glared at him, and shrugged his shoulders quickly. He was tense, and he was pissed that he was being ambushed, and he was not about to have a girly little heart to heart with Ducky when he had a job to do.

"Not just my story," Gibbs retorted bluntly.

"How very noble of you," Ducky said. "I've just told you I'm having lunch with her soon; she's allowing me to be privy to your problems. You aren't being honorable protecting her privacy!"

"No, Duck, I'm not," Gibbs growled pointedly.

"There are two sides to every story, Jethro, I am willing to hear you both out!"

"Well, there are three sides to this one," Gibbs snapped tightly. "And one of 'em isn't my place to broadcast. Might jeopardize a reputation."

Ducky looked about ready to throw a dangerous metal instrument at him, and then in an instant it seemed to click, and the medical examiner sighed heavily, shaking his head. He stared at Gibbs intently, mulling over the multitude of things he could say. He wanted to ask if it was Jennifer, but he knew how well _that_ would go over with Jethro. He supposed he would hear the story from Diane—_especially_ if it involved another woman.

It was, Ducky supposed, noble of Gibbs not to throw Jenny's name out into the open as the cause of whatever rift was between him and his wife. Still, the whole thing was sordid and distasteful and Ducky immediately felt caught and trapped—Diane was his friend, as was Jethro, and Jennifer was someone he liked and respected very much.

"You got anymore _questions_, Ducky?" Gibbs asked—though it was obviously rhetorical, and his voice was full of rancor.

"Is it over between the two of you?"

Gibbs looked uncertain for a moment, confusion snapping through his eyes. Caught off his game for the second time since he'd taken this ill-fated trip down to Autopsy, he asked before thinking:

"Me 'n' Jen?"

Ducky looked at him unhappily, sad lines etched into his face. He chose to ignore what his friend had said, and went on as if he hadn't heard it.

"Is it over between you and Diane?"

Gibbs swallowed, ignoring the sick feeling in his gut again. He grit his teeth painfully and then, by way of answer, just held up his left hand and pointed with a glare to his bare ring finger.

It was barely an answer, but it was sufficient; he stormed out through the automatic doors and slammed his hand onto the elevator button with so much aggression it stung up to his elbow.

* * *

"Where the _hell_ are Shepard and Decker?" Gibbs barked—before he even got into the bullpen, and the unexpected shouting startled Burley nearly out of his chair.

He squawked softly, his eyes going wide, and dropped the sandwich he was eating, scrambling to pretend he'd just been working diligently on, er, whatever he was supposed to be working on.

"Uh, they're up with Morrow, Boss," Burley answered.

Gibbs glared up at the catwalk, his eyes roaming to the entrance of the secretary's office. He narrowed his eyes and stormed to his desk, slamming things around and sitting down heavily in his chair.

"Somethin' wrong?" Burley asked.

"You got Miller's report on Corporal Davids?" Gibbs demanded.

"She does," Burley said, pointing immediately to Jenny's desk. "Uh, I mean, it's on her desk, she was reading it," he rambled, half-standing. "Want me to—okay, you got it," Burley trailed off, still wary of Gibbs' sudden anger.

And he'd been so happy this morning.

Gibbs was already snatching the file off of Shepard's desk and ripping it open to read through it. He narrowed his eyes and looked up at the catwalk again, scowling.

"Why's she up there?" he snapped.

"Dunno," Burley answered. "He called her up about ten minutes ago."

Gibbs swore.

"C'mon," he ordered. "If she's gonna play kiss ass with the Director, you and I will have to interview the Davids suspects."

"I can't, Boss."

"You _can't_?"

"Naw, I have to interview Mrs. Earl about her husband's embezzlement. You told me to do it today," Burley glanced at his watch. "She'll be here in half an hour."

Gibbs glared at Burley. He remembered now—that's _exactly_ why he'd arranged for Shepard and Decker to be taking care of the Davids case. He looked away from the younger agent and stormed back to his desk, resigning himself to waiting until the Director was done with his agents.

He threw the lab analysis on his desk and leaned forward, rubbing his face; he was surprised for a second to feel stubble there, and then remembered that he hadn't bothered to shave this morning because he didn't have anything at Jen's house, and they'd been fooling around all morning, and his face was rough and unshaven because he'd made a mess of his marriage.

* * *

She unexpectedly found herself sitting in on Decker's meeting with Director Morrow about his transfer to California, and she should have known immediately that it meant she was about to be handed the very chance she'd joined this agency for.

She was distracted, though, caught off guard by being called up here, and mired in the light happiness she hadn't been able to shake since she woke up this morning—absurd, it was so _absurd_ for her to be so pleased with herself when she'd essentially just been the linchpin that busted up a marriage, but she couldn't control the way she felt and right now she felt less burdened than she had in months and she felt okay because Gibbs…was hers for a moment.

How long that moment would last, she wasn't thinking about.

"Would I be training her?" Decker asked with interest, his voice breaking into her reverie and snapping her attention back to the conversation at hand.

"Yes and no," Morrow was responding. "You would be listed as her supervisory agent for paperwork's sake, but the both of you are working in connection with Agent McAllister as well as Agents Macy and Callan. McAllister's going to be bumped up to Assistant Director sometime in the middle of ninety-eight if not earlier, and if all goes well, he'll be in charge of putting you two overseas."

Decker nodded, and shot Jenny a look, grinning.

"How'd you like to call me Boss?" he teased.

She made a face, and then laughed.

"Please, like you'd take it seriously," she retorted. "We've both worked under the drill sergeant for too long."

Decker pointed to himself.

"I got a year on you," he retorted. "And Gibbs and I have the same seniority," he added smugly, and then noticed Morrow looking at him. "Kinda," he said hastily.

Director Morrow smirked.

Jenny leaned forward, swallowing as she tried to process everything she'd heard so far.

"Sir," she said slowly. "I'm hearing you correctly? This is a bona fide promotion? It isn't the up in the air _maybe_ we discussed a month ago?"

"No, Agent Shepard," Morrow answered. He gave a nod. "This is it. You've done as I asked and conducted yourself with stellar skill since that conversation, and I've managed to convince McAllister you're worth spending the time on."

"He doesn't want me?" she asked, arching a brow as if challenged.

"He's, ah, skeptical about your readiness," Morrow said diplomatically.

"He doesn't want a woman," Jenny translated dryly.

"Agent Macy is a woman," Morrow answered.

"A woman who was military police and whose got nearly five years more experience in the agency than I do," Jenny said.

"I see you did your research."

"I was very interested in the offer," Jenny said, and leaned back. She shrugged. "That's alright," she mused. "I seem to remember Gibbs being reluctant to take me on."

"That's an understatement," muttered Decker.

But Morrow laughed.

"What was it he called you?" the Director asked. "When he didn't know you were standing outside the door? What was it, a—"

"—Charlie's Angel wannabe crime-fighting princess," Jenny quoted verbatim, smirking at the memory.

"No," Decker said, eyes widening.

"Oh, yes," Morrow confirmed, shaking his head in some amusement. "I'll have to remind him of that, now that he's eaten his words."

Jenny smiled, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. It was as if an in instant her brain had flipped a switch, and now there was nothing on her mind but this opportunity and the details of it.

"I can't believe he _said_ that," Decker said, shaking his head.

"Yes you _can_," Jenny retorted, giving him a look.

Decker smirked, and Director Morrow held up his hand. He pointed at Decker and raised an eyebrow.

"Agent Gibbs is ready to let go of you in December?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah, he's prepared," Decker answered airily. "He's known about it for months now," he reminded the Director.

Morrow nodded and slid Decker's papers across to him.

"You're due in LA on the fifteenth of December, then," he said, nodding cordially. "This file summarizes most things, but we'll have a few more conversations on the subject," Morrow shrugged and gestured to the door. "You're free to get back to the bullpen," he said.

Decker picked up his file and stood up, grinning smugly at Jenny.

"Christmas at the beach," he bragged, and then gave them both a sort of mock salute. "I'll see you downstairs, Jenny," he said, and added: "Thank you, Sir," before he exited the office, and left her alone with the director.

The Director wasted no time; he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table.

"I don't have your orders finalized," he told her. "I don't want you to feel as if you have to accept this position, and I do not want you rushing into a promotion if you have any doubts about being ready for it," he hesitated. "You're still a very new agent, Shepard, and if you'll let me be frank, I have to say this will reflect terribly on both of us if you prove mediocre."

"Thank for the vote of the confidence," she said dryly.

"I believe you know what I mean."

"Naturally," Jenny said. "We don't want anyone thinking my father got me this job, and we don't want anyone claiming I slept my way into it."

"Neither of those are particularly appealing rumors," Morrow agreed.

"I am capable of handling this," Jenny asserted confidently. "And doing so ahead of the curve."

"I like hearing that. But I am still going to require you to think it over for the next month," Morrow said. "Whether you accepted now or in November, I wouldn't be sending you to LA until mid-January, so we've got plenty of time on our hands."

Jenny hesitated. She looked down at her hands, mostly to hide the conflict in her eyes. Seven months ago, she'd have accepted this chance with no hesitation and no thought—instantly, and eagerly. Now, she found herself grateful for the chance to _think it over_, and that thought infuriated her as much as it confused her.

She knew she still wanted to avenge her father, because the nightmares still haunted her and sitting in the study still made her sick and paranoid sometimes, and she was afraid that horrid arms dealer would be back for her and she wasn't going to let him get away with demolishing an admiral Colonel's spotless reputation.

But this morning, she had been so damn happy just lying in bed next to Jethro, and she had never imagined that something like that would happen to her. She had never considered that someone might came along who made her feel less betrayed and less hurt and who understood that shutting up was so much _better_ than speaking out sometimes.

"I'll consider the pros and cons, Director," she said wryly, smiling at Morrow.

"You should," he agreed earnestly. "It's common for probationary agents to spend years with their mentor. You work well with Gibbs. It would surprise me if you left his team without a second thought."

"I don't want my career to remain stagnant," Jenny said, and she wasn't sure right then if she said it to reinforce that to herself, or to convince Morrow she was serious.

He nodded.

"Do you have an questions about the promotion?"

She touched her chin thoughtfully and crinkled her nose.

"It is definitely a path to overseas operations?" she asked.

Morrow nodded.

"McAllister is to thank for revolutionizing that division," he explained. "NCIS is going to make a name for itself. Currently much of the work is going to involve post-Soviet crime rings and a lot of the weapons that disappeared after the Iron Curtain fell."

"Because we don't want those just lying around," Jenny remarked, rolling her eyes.

"For obvious reasons," Morrow said. "And the CIA seems to be tunnel-vision obsessed with the Middle East for now."

"Well Bin Laden isn't going to go away, either," Jenny said logically. "Director, if the agencies opened up a little more and cooperated we might have a better chance at combatting extra-governmental terrorist groups," she said earnestly. "And we need to be more open with international intelligence agencies—DCRI, MI6, even _Mossad_—"

Morrow cut her off, and laughed. He raised his eyebrows.

"You're young, Jenny, you've still got idealism that hasn't been crushed by what a brutal political world the agency circuit is," he said, but he looked impressed. "That's exactly why I'm convinced we need you."

"I can be idealistic and _smart_, Director."

"I've no doubt of that."

Morrow nodded, as if approving his own comment, and he smiled at her. Jenny smiled back, and bit her lip; a storm of excitement and confliction raging behind her controlled facial expression and guarded eyes.

"Keep it up, Shepard, and maybe they'll put you in my chair one day."

She swallowed, looking down at her hands again. She looked up, raising her eyebrows as if she wasn't sure if he was kidding or not, and he looked dead serious—confident, even, that it might be true. She put her hand to her jaw in a Gibbs-like gesture and looked at her director, setting her jaw.

"When do you need my answer?"

"Thanksgiving."

* * *

To say he was _pleased_ that Jenny was still with Director Morrow when Diane walked in was an understatement.

_Ecstatic_ and _overjoyed_ were better words, but neither of those feelings lasted longer than a split second—due to the fact that Diane had just walked in.

Gibbs didn't miss the looks that crossed both Decker and Burley's faces when she walked past them, and he could have strangled them both for managing to look so obviously interested and terrified of whatever was going to happen—he was also determined not to let Diane make a damn scene in the middle of his workplace.

She didn't look a bit like Ducky had said she sounded. Her make-up was impeccable, she was dressed as sharply as usually, her hair was as neat as ever, and the only difference in her appearance was the foreboding coldness in her eyes.

She stopped in the middle of the bullpen, close to his desk, and looked directly at Jenny's; she stared at Shepard's desk as if making a point to everyone in the room, and Gibbs was almost provoked to snapping her attention away from it when she dragged her eyes away and looked at him coolly.

"Do you have a minute?" she asked, in a tone that clearly suggested the only answer was _yes_.

He still decided to push the envelope; he was a little _less_ than happy with her for calling Ducky to bitch about him.

"No," he answered bitterly.

"You don't look particularly busy, Leroy," Diane retorted venomously.

He held up a file and shook it at her.

"I'm working," he said through clenched teeth. "This can wait until I get home."

"You aren't allowed at home," she fired back icily, and he stood up, leaning over to give her a warning glare.

"Diane-!" he snapped.

Burley coughed loudly, cutting him off. Gibbs straightened and craned his neck to see Burley, hell-bent on giving him the punishment of a lifetime, but Burley just vaguely pointed up at the catwalk. Gibbs turned and looked; Morrow was standing just outside, and if Gibbs tilted his head, he could see Jenny's heels.

He walked around his desk and took Diane's arm gently, turning her towards the elevator.

She looked surprised, and whipped around out of his grip, looking for the source of his sudden change of heart. She caught sight of Jenny's back as it faced the bullpen and narrowed her eyes, turning back on her heel.

"No, you wouldn't want me within arms' reach of her, would you?" she asked nastily—and loudly enough for both Decker and Burley to unmistakably hear.

Gibbs gave her an immoveable glare and rested his hand on her lower back, steering her towards the elevator again, just praying to _God_ that he could get her out of the squad room before Jen saw her.

And then remembering he'd broken _God's_ rules, so that was probably a stupid idea.

* * *

He smacked his hand on the emergency stop switch and brought the elevator to a shuddering halt. The lights dimmed and shrouded them in shadow, and he stood facing his wife. She folded her arms in front of her, jacket and purse dangling between them like some fashionable shield.

"_What_?" Gibbs demanded hostilely.

"How dare you talk to me like that," she lashed out, though it was with a much less open aggression and much more ominous passive coldness.

Gibbs swallowed down his animosity, falling into a silent glare, and waiting. She shouldn't have just shown up like this, but she was right—he shouldn't snap or bark at her. The memory of her crying over a lipstick stained collar was still sobering and still made him guilty, and if she was putting up a front now, he should let her. He _should_ be contrite.

"What can I do for you, Diane?" he asked, in a failed effort to be cordial—the question just came out sarcastic and condescending.

"I just came by to discuss some technical issues."

"_Great_."

"Shut-up, Leroy," Diane snapped harshly. "You don't have any right to act like I've inconvenienced you and you will stand there silently and _listen_ to me."

He shut his mouth, but he didn't change his facial expression. He straightened up and put his hands in his pockets, giving her a silent, _livid_ glare. This reminded him that she'd threatened to take his house—the house _Kelly_ called _home_.

"I am staying at the house," Diane asserted firmly. "I can't expect Maria and Emma to put me up indefinitely, and I like _our_ house," she said '_our'_ with more venom than Gibbs had ever though possible. "Not to mention I don't want you thinking you're free to bring _Jezebel_ over now that the cat's out of the bag."

"Ah, jeez, Diane," he muttered, wincing at the nickname.

She shot him a warning look that silenced him effectively.

"I don't give a damn if you need things. I don't want you anywhere near me right now. I'll figure something out with Ducky about letting you come by when I'm gone to grab some shirts or ties or perhaps a copy of our vows."

She seemed particularly proud of that last zinger, almost more impressed with herself than she was about calling Jenny _Jezebel_.

"I'm not sure how long it will take me to find an apartment or a condo for myself, and I'm not sure how dedicated how I am to the search," she said sarcastically. "Have you taken a look at the divorce papers?"

"Diane, you want to just slow it down a minute?" Gibbs snapped.

She reached out and grabbed his left hand, yanking it from his pocket and looking directly at his ring finger.

"No," she said firmly, and dropped his hand as if disgusted. "You certainly didn't waste any time taking off your ring," she noted acidly.

"I haven't looked at any damn papers," he growled. "It's barely been a day."

"And it took less time than that for you to fuck _Marilyn Monroe_ up in the bullpen, I'm sure," Diane retorted coldly.

He wasn't sure if that was a insult regarding his sexual performance or just a dig at Jenny and the affair in general, but he was getting uncomfortable trapped in here with her and he wanted to get out—_out_, and away from this, and maybe to somewhere with some bourbon.

"Will you just use her name?" he asked.

Diane looked about ready to put a bullet through his head. She, however, chose to ignore his _stupid_ request, and went on with her tirade.

"I'm done crying over you," Diane said.

"You come here to tell me that?"

"I came here to tell you not to come home," she hissed. "I came here to remind you that you have to face me every day until this divorce is final. I am not going anywhere."

Gibbs stared at her. Frustrated, he turned and put his hand against the elevator wall, and then turned around.

"Diane," he said tensely, holding his hands out. "I'll put you up in a hotel while you look for a place," he promised. "A suite at the Jackson."

She set her jaw.

"You're not going to keep me like some trophy, Leroy!"

"I wasn't suggesting-!"

"You have no idea how to use your words!" she shouted, raising her voice for the first time. "I told you how this is going to work and you don't have a _say_!"

"It's my house!"

"A house you've barely lived in since last year!" she cried, her eyes flashing. "You never come home, you wallow in the basement when you do—dammit, Leroy, you don't even know what colour the sheets on our bed are! I can't make you grasp how at fault you are in everything right now and what you need to do is shut your goddamn mouth and _listen_ to me!"

He grit his teeth and she adjusted her grip on her purse and jacket, moving her hand to gesture towards him.

"I never should have stood by your side for this long. I should have left you while you were so obsessed with that monster. You wouldn't have noticed. You wouldn't have cared. I shouldn't have waited like some pining June Cleaver for you to come home and remember you had a wife! Our marriage ended the day Kyle Boone killed a petty officer. And instead of getting out, I stayed around and let you _break_ my _heart_."

She stopped and let it sink in, but there really were no sign of tears this time. He leaned back against the wall, looking at her with hollow eyes, silent.

"I feel bad about myself," Diane said with confidence that didn't match the confession.

He was acutely reminded of Jenny saying the same thing in the kitchen last night.

"I am always going to look back on this marriage and hate how I acted and I will hate how you made me feel sometimes. And I will always hate that I _can't_ hate you. I am trying so _hard_ to hate you, and I can't—so I'm going to make you suffer, Leroy. It's the only way I can make sure I inflict even a fraction of the pain _I _felt on _you_. I'm going to take everything. And I hope that little bitch mistress you're so enamored of is enough for you when I'm done."

She let the threat hang and lunged past him, flicking the elevator on. She pressed the button to take her back to the garage—she had no intention of running into Jenny Shepard in the squad room—and she turned a cold shoulder to him, staring straight ahead.

Still leaning against the side, Gibbs rubbed his jaw, pricked by his five o'clock shadow, and left a little shaken by the menace he'd seen in her eyes.

* * *

Jenny took the stairs from the catwalk two at a time, reaching behind her to sweep her hair into a messy ponytail as she went. She felt charged and energetic; she knew Gibbs would be rankled that she and Decker hadn't been able to get out to question their suspects yet, and she was ready to get that out of the way.

"Hey," she greeted, nodding to Decker. "Where's Gibbs?" she asked lightly, nodding at the lead agent's desk.

"Uh," Decker answered vaguely.

Jenny looked over at them. She'd stopped at Gibbs' desk to take her file back, and she paused, her hand on it, when she noticed Burley and Decker looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"What?" she asked, and when she received no answer: "Where is he?"

"In the elevator," Decker answered.

"With his wife," Burley supplied dully.

Jenny's mouth turned down in a frown and she looked over at the elevator, raising her head in a futile attempt to see across cubicles and through a metal door. Her shoulders sagged and she swallowed, stepping away from his desk. She left her file there and went to her desk, forgetting momentarily that her colleagues were looking at her; she sat down and put her head in her hands, tapping her temple with some frustration.

_In the elevator with his wife_.

The information sapped her energy, sucked it right out of her, and took with it the excitement and the residue of this mornings happiness and left her winded and lightheaded and aching.

What were they doing in the elevator—fighting, reconciling? Where did she stand with Jethro—was he really _hers_ now, did she want him to commit to her, did she want to be with him and make sure that this affair was worth it? Was he a solid reason to turn down a promotion—could she have both, did she have to make a choice, did he give a damn about her?

"Shepard, we gotta go interview these guys," Decker interrupted firmly.

When she looked up, his expression was apologetic, but he had his gear.

"Gibbs says we can go when we report back," he added, as if it were a bribe.

But he could go home and leave this behind him at the end of the day; her personal and professional life were now knotted together so tightly that untangling the two probably mean just cutting a clean break.

She rubbed forehead and stood up, nodding curtly. She grabbed her things and swallowed, putting a guarded look on her face and following Decker out. She appreciated that he went right for the back stairs instead of the main ones or, god forbid, the elevator.

She went in silence, swallowing down everything in favor of putting a neutral game face on—she should never have been naïve enough to take this mornings happiness without a rain of salt, and what had seemed so light and relieving this morning was again a heavy, snarled burden, and she found herself barreling towards a choice between Shepard's head and Jenny's heart.

* * *

References: The Bible (Jezebel), _Star Wars_, Jeopardy!, _Harlequin_ (trashy dime store romance novels), _Chicago Hope_ (television series starring Mark Harmon, Rocky Carroll, and Lauren Holly-I believe it was in it's 3rd season around this time), _NCIS: LA_ (Agents Macy and Callan), _Leave It to Beaver,_ NCIS Season 8 Episodes "_Enemies Foreign/Enemies Domestic_" (Assistant Director McAlister), NCIS Season 1 Episode "_Left for Dead_" (Gibbs has a wife who lives permanently at the Jackson Hotel; probably not Diane, but I'm referencing it here), _House_ Season 4 Finale episodes (House's Head; Wilson's Heart).

***DCRI** = French Intelligence

_feedback appreciated!  
-Alexandra_


	16. the Seven Iron

_A/N: Oh, and I'm on a flight back to DC today. Like I've mentioned before-I started this story last year in January, on my flight back to DC. I've almost, almost! Come full circle. The story seems to be adequately breaking everyone's heart; so far so good. Welcome a guest star in this chapter! _

_*Here's another chapter in which you should take the rating seriously, for sexual reasons among others-like violence, dark themes, etc. Be forewarned. _

_"...and you could have it all  
my empire of dirt  
I will let you down  
I will make you Hurt."  
-Johnny Cash; 'Hurt'. [Playlist]_

* * *

_Chapter Fifteen: the Seven Iron_

A pristinely dressed, stressed-looking little hostess told them the wait would be fifteen minutes, and Ducky smiled warmly, waving his hand as if it mattered not a bit. They had chosen a busy restaurant on a Thursday afternoon to have lunch; it was bound to be crowded.

"May I have a name?" the girl asked.

"Peterson," Diane answered. "Two," she reminded the hostess, gesturing between herself and Ducky.

"Thank you," the girl said, handing over a small buzzer. "It will light up and vibrate when you have a table," she said. "There are plenty of seats at the bar!"

"Ah, yes, naturally," Ducky remarked, as the hostess scurried off to help another guest. "It would be too early for those seats to be filled."

"Not for me," Diane remarked, pointing towards two seats near the end. "Care to fill a couple, Ducky?" she asked.

"After you," he said cordially, allowing her to lead the way.

Diane smiled appreciatively and led them to the barstools nearest to the hosting area. She rested their buzzer on the counter next to her purse and folded her jacket in her lap. Ducky sat next to her pleasantly, tucking his Morgan's keys into his suit coat pocket, and he looked at her mildly.

"You've gone back to using your maiden name rather quickly," he said neutrally.

"Yes, well, I'll have to get used to it, won't I?" Diane responded briskly. "I'd rather not go on using his name. It makes it more difficult for me to stop thinking about him," she stopped, a sour look flashing through her eyes.

"It may be premature," Ducky said.

"It isn't," she retorted. "If you don't mind, I'd like to wait until we're seated to get into all of this," Diane placated, waving at the bartender nicely. She arched an eyebrow and glanced at the doctor with pursed lips.

"I need a drink first," she said dryly.

* * *

She handed her menu to the waiter and picked up her glass of sweet tea; she'd been prepared for this lunch and this sort of fleshing it out conversation for a couple of days, but it was still the first time she'd really be talking about it.

"How much do you know about what's going on, Ducky?" she asked.

He unrolled his silverware and folded his napkin neatly into his lap.

"I can honestly tell you I'm in the dark, Diane," Ducky answered. "Your phone call last week is really all the information I have."

"Leroy hasn't told you anything?"

"You know how Gibbs is," Ducky said. "He gave me _nothing_ when I asked him what had happened."

"That's not altogether unsurprising," Diane said coolly. "People aren't generally keen to testify against themselves. There's a whole damn amendment that covers it."

Ducky chuckled, and took a sip of his water. He brushed something off the tablecloth like a finicky old maid and tilted his head, patiently waiting for Diane to begin this talk. She sucked on her straw somewhat sullenly and then put her glass back down, leaning back and folding her arms.

"Well, we're getting divorced," she admitted bitterly.

It was the first time she'd told someone. Emma hardly counted—and Leroy himself didn't count; Ducky was the first friend she had told about this dissolution of her marriage. She hadn't been able to muster the courage or the strength to call her _mother_; she used the recent death of Rusty as an excuse to hold off.

"I noticed he had taken his ring off."

"I'm sure he's had it off at work quite a few times before this week," Diane said narrowly, turning her nose up a little.

Ducky made no comment, and instead shook his head, brow furrowed.

"Who started proceedings?"

"He did," she said, and then backtracked. "No, I did. He—he forced my hand," she said, pointing to her own chest. She swallowed hard. "He cheated on me, Ducky," she said quietly.

She hated doing this. She felt petty, inviting Ducky out to vent to him, but he deserved to know what had gone down between her and Leroy and he was _her_ friend as much as he was Leroy's. She didn't want to lose that friendship, but the more she'd considered it, the less possible it had seemed for him to come out of this unscathed if he had to choose.

Ducky's eyes were full of sympathy and kindness. He reached his arm across the table as if he would take hers, but she didn't uncross her arms.

"He confessed this?"

"No," she said, her brows slanting angrily. "I had to _find_ _out_," she hesitated for a moment, unsure if she wanted to reveal how she'd figured it out, afraid it would make her look pathetic. But then, she thought the only person who looked pathetic was her errant husband. "There was lipstick on his collar."

"Ah."

"It wasn't mine."

Ducky leaned back again. He was unsure of what was to be said in a situation such as this, when he was well acquainted with all of the people in the triangle—he was assuming he was. Gibbs had basically confirmed that he had taken up with Jennifer behind his wife's back, yet Ducky was unsure if Diane knew the identity of her competitor.

"I see," Ducky said. "And so you confronted him."

"I confronted him," Diane confirmed, nodding curtly.

"Oh, my dear," Ducky sighed, shaking his head forlornly. "My dear, I am so sorry."

"I don't want you to feel sorry for me," she said, making a face. "I just want you to know what happened. You deserve to have some idea," Diane added. "After all, if it weren't for you," she trailed off.

"You wouldn't have a broken heart, I'm afraid," Ducky said.

"Ducky, _you_ didn't do this," Diane said firmly, waving her hand at him as if he were talking complete nonsense. "This isn't your fault. I'm not blaming you. I just," she paused.

The redhead reached out and picked up her glass again, taking a long drink of her tea—this time, from the side of the glass rather than the straw. She licked her lips and swallowed slowly, and then took a deep breath.

"I do not want to put you in the middle, Ducky," she said sincerely. She put the glass down with a determined motion, her knuckles turning white on it before she let it go and pulled her hands back to her chest. "I won't ask you to pick sides."

"I wouldn't peg you for the type of woman who would," Ducky answered gallantly.

"Don't get me wrong. I _want_ to demand you never speak to him again," she said, laughing a little. She shrugged her shoulders. "But I know better than that. One sin doesn't necessarily make a man's character, as much as I hate him for it," she paused. "Leroy is still…he does good for a lot of people. It's just too bad that he spends all his time on strangers."

"It's a peculiar habit of Jethro's," Ducky agreed. "It's almost as if he's afraid of getting close to those who love him."

Diane looked at Ducky narrowly, on the brink of mentioning Shannon and Kelly. She wondered if Ducky knew—she wondered if anyone knew. Had his first wife known about them? His marine buddies must have; they'd have known Shannon. And of course Jackson Gibbs knew. But was Leroy's team as much in the dark as Diane had once been?

Positive that Jenny Shepard knew nothing about the tragedy in Leroy's past, Diane felt a little better.

"Diane," Ducky said, and then stopped; he leaned back as the waiter approached with their meals, and the both of them fell silent, unwilling to discuss personal topics in front of a stranger. When he had ensured everything was okay and disappeared, Diane picked up her salad fork and raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"I simply admire your level-headedness in this," Ducky said gently. "Here you've been wronged at no fault of your own, and you've just said Gibbs has a _good_ character."

"I wasn't so level-headed a few days ago, believe me," she muttered, stabbing her lettuce aggressively. "I wallowed. I raged, I cried," she listed, rolling her eyes distastefully. "None of that will change what happened—I'm just trying to turn my back on him," she tried to explain. "I can't bear the thought that I might go running back. I just want to punish him and move on."

Ducky nodded, focusing on his food for a moment. He fell silent, furrowing his brow thoughtfully. He took a bite, chewed pensively, and it was then that she leaned forward, a different look crossing her face. She bit her lip hesitantly and tapped her fork on her plate, antsy.

"Did everyone know, Ducky?" she asked quietly, a pleading look in her eyes. "Everyone at NCIS, did they know he was sleeping with her? Just be honest with me," she requested earnestly.

Some said the wife was always the last to know, but some said the wife was always the first to know—and while she hadn't been the first, she also knew she wasn't the last, and she _hated_ the idea of Leroy's coworkers pitying her or thinking she was some airheaded housewife none the wiser.

Ducky sighed uncomfortably, raising his shoulder, and she refused to let him off the hook, lifting an eyebrow at him pointedly.

He held out a hand on the table, moving it without much commitment.

"There were _rumors_," he began tentatively.

Diane leaned back, snapping her eyes away instantly and going back to her food.

"It was never confirmed, Diane," Ducky said apologetically.

"They knew," Diane said dully, shaking her head slightly. She stabbed more lettuce into her fork violently. "You knew, Ducky," she said, glancing up at him. She pointed at him with her fork. "_That's_ why you didn't ask me _who_ he slept with."

Ducky looked at her uncomfortably. She was his friend, but no matter what he had known or suspected, it hadn't been his place to rat out Gibbs. He had no right to interfere in Jennifer's life in that manner. He didn't think Diane really expected him to have done so, anyway.

"He was discreet," Ducky remarked.

She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind, but refrained form snapping; she knew she was treading thin ice in this particular situation, and she didn't want to hurt Ducky's feelings when she knew he was having a hard time with this as well. Diane shrugged, chewing her food stiffly.

"It isn't my problem anymore," Diane said curtly, swallowing. "Leroy is free to run around the agency with Pussy Galore."

Ducky raised his eyebrows, caught somewhere between amused and rather scandalized.

He could appreciate a good James Bond reference, but considering the circumstance, he didn't think it quite appropriate to _laugh_. He chose to fill his silence by taking another bite of food and giving her a mild smirk. He sorted through his thoughts for a moment and, on a whim, decided to take a leap of faith.

"Diane, if it is any help, Jenn—"

"_Don't_ say her name."

Ducky cleared his throat.

"_She_," he corrected obediently. "She isn't a pariah. She—"

"She's twenty-_five_," snapped Diane, still seething over how young this other woman of her husband's was.

"She's twenty-six, as of late September," Ducky corrected.

Diane slammed her fork down, immediately realizing it must have been Jennifer Shepard's birthday around the time Rusty had died. Anger flared hot, but she refused to tell Ducky that little detail.

"She isn't _proud_ of herself," Ducky said.

"_Don't_ defend her," Diane snapped.

"It isn't a defense per se," Ducky began.

"I don't want to hear anything _about_ her!" Diane snapped loudly. "There's a special place in hell for women who go after other women's husbands," she hissed.

"Yes, specifically the second circle, according to Dante," Ducky replied calmly. "The fact of the matter is that the real blame lies solely with Jethro."

"No," Diane retorted. "_No_. He broke _his_ vows, but she could have had the decency to exercise some self-control. It isn't as if she'd have to wait _that_ long," Diane asserted nastily.

"She's very young," Ducky said mildly. "She thinks she can change him."

"Perhaps I'll try feeling sorry for Anne Boleyn when I get a settlement," Diane responded coolly. "Now, Doctor Mallard, how have things been lately? How is your mother?" she asked, switching gears, instantly cutting off the conversation.

Ducky meekly followed, unwilling to alienate her further—he shouldn't have pushed to bring some understanding to Diane about Jenny, particularly if Diane was in the habit of referring to Jenny Shepard not by her name but by the names of famous home wreckers.

* * *

Burley raised his eyebrows at the muted cursing that accompanied the sound of Shepard banging her head under Gibbs' desk for the third time. He leaned forward, trying to see from his desk the red splash of colour that would indicate her hair.

"You okay down there?" he asked, smirking.

He saw Gibbs' empty chair rocket back against the bullpen wall and Shepard coughed, muttering under her breath again. Burley stood up and leaned forward, watching as she crawled backwards from underneath the desk and looked at her lap in annoyance.

"These wires are impossibly knotted," she growled, pulling at them violently.

Gibbs' computer had gone haywire this morning, and since she was the freshest out of college and had the most technical training in her years there—she'd had enough foresight to know she needed to be at least adequate in IT, and she was pretty good at it—she'd been ordered by an irate Boss to '_get under my desk and fix it_!'

A _horrible_ choice of words on Gibbs' part, though he didn't seem to notice Burley or Decker's amusement.

"It's like he sits under here when he's stressed like it's his little foxhole and he just knots the cords muttering about Charlie."

"Shepard, you can't just say things like that," Decker said, sounding scandalized.

"Gibbs wasn't even in 'Nam," Burley pointed out skeptically. "Red, he'd go ape if he heard you," he added, agreeing with Decker. "Don't think you can simper your way out of mocking the Corp."

She mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a threat to withhold sex from him, though neither of her colleagues could prove she'd said it. She managed to unknot one of the wires, and dove back under the desk, plugging it in. She heard a good whirring noise, and inched backwards to look at his screen. The computer was rebooting.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" Burley asked loudly.

She coughed again, pulling herself up into Gibbs' chair and resting her hand on the mouse.

"Shut the hell up," she snapped hoarsely, making a face. She reached up with her free hand and rubbed her throat distastefully. She already wasn't feeling very well, and all of the dust under Gibbs' desk had done nothing to help.

"You look pale," Decker pointed out.

"Paler than normal, he means," Burley added obnoxiously. "'Cause usually you just have fair skin but today it's kind of like a watery snow colour."

Jenny glared at him balefully.

"Thank you, Mary Kay," she retorted sarcastically. "I told you I didn't feel well," she added snippily, narrowing her eyes and shaking Gibbs' mouse impatiently. "Dammit," she swore, when his home screen popped up. She looked at Decker and Burley. "Do either of you have Gibbs' password?"

Decker looked at her skeptically, and Burley just laughed.

Jenny stared at the password-demanding screen in frustration. Trying to troubleshoot this damn computer was a welcome break from the harrowing case they were working on top of several open ones, but considering the pounding headache she had that was getting steadily worse, she was wishing for something less irritating to do.

"Where is he?" she asked irritably.

"Talking to his lawyer."

"_Again_?"

"Er," Burley said, shifting his eyes uncomfortably. "I think Diane thinks if she wears him down he'll give her what she wants."

"Oh, yes, that was my _favorite_ tactic to use on my father," Jenny snapped bitterly. "When I was eight years old," she added sarcastically. She glanced around for her elusive Boss and narrowed her eyes at the elevator—which was probably where he was arguing with the attorney.

"Hey, you went to law school, why don't you take Gibbs' divorce?" Burley asked wickedly.

She gave him the most menacing glare she could muster and he blanched.

"Not even slightly amusing, Stan," she hissed, randomly trying out a password.

Gibbs' computer rejected it.

"His password isn't bastard," she announced.

"Uh, we'll make a note of that," Decker said.

Jenny attempted a few more passwords that she knew wouldn't work and then leaned over with a heavy sigh, closing her eyes. She wrinkled her brow unhappily, wishing that she could just put her head down and go to sleep. She pursed her lips in a pout and whined pathetically.

She heard Burley laugh, and then he abruptly stopped—warning her—, and she had time to wrench her eyes open, sit up, and pretend she hadn't just been pitifully whining at Gibbs' desk before the man himself stormed back into the bullpen.

"That better be fixed," he growled, pointing at his computer. He chucked his phone onto his desk violently and gave it a dark look. "Rule thirteen," he barked. "_Never_ involve lawyers."

"But you gotta have lawyers to get divorced, Boss," Burley remarked gleefully—obviously without care for his well being.

"Not if you know how to hide a body," Gibbs muttered under his breath.

"Jethro," Jenny admonished, looking at him in shock. He came around his desk and shrugged roughly, nudging her with his shoulder. He nodded at his computer.

"Well?" he demanded.

"It wants your password before I can make sure it's good," she snapped, managing to get the whole sentence out before she turned her head away and started coughing. He put his arms around her shoulders and she flicked her eyes down covertly and pointedly watched him type in KMG3184 and unlock his computer.

She tilted her head, trying to make sense of the code. Nothing came to mind.

Gibbs leaned back and gestured sarcastically at the computer. Jenny pushed her hair back and sighed, clearing her throat, and before she could start typing, he grabbed one of her hands.

"You sick?" he asked suspiciously, looking at her intently.

She tugged her hand back and glared at him.

"I don't feel _well_," she retorted coolly.

He'd _been_ there this morning when she'd chosen herbal tea over coffee and laid in bed much longer than she should have because she could hardly breathe through her nose and was trying not to cough up a lung.

Gibbs looked at her for a minute. Then he unexpectedly reached up and pressed his palm against her forehead.

"What the hell?" she exclaimed, startled.

He ignored her.

"You have a fever," he grunted. "Go home."

She stared at him as he removed his hand, aware that Burley and Decker looked equally as stunned.

"What do you mean _go home_?" Burley asked, outraged. "Boss, you made me work when I had pneumonia!"

"I'm not going home," Jenny snapped, balking at the special treatment.

She pushed away from his computer and waved her hand, indicating that it was fine.

"Go _home_," Gibbs repeated seriously.

"You serious, Gibbs?" Decker asked.

"We're swamped," Gibbs pointed out curtly. "She stays, she gets the two of you sick, we screw over the cases and the victims," he explained, and then pointed her to her desk. "Get your gear. Go home."

"It's just a cold," she protested under her breath, and pressed her hand to her own forehead with a frown as she stalked petulantly over to her desk and slowly started getting her things together—she was still in shock that he was actually sending her home.

She should interpret some concern in his decision? Was his motive really professional, or did he possibly just care that she didn't feel good, and didn't want to work? She could appreciate it on an emotional level, but on a work-related note, it was awkward to be sent home when he enforced different rules for the team members he _wasn't_ sleeping with.

Jenny tucked her hair behind her ears and grabbed her keys, figuring it was lucky she and Gibbs drove separately today. She avoided looking at both Burley and Decker and picked up the financial statements she was sorting through in order to work on them at home. She shot a look at Gibbs; he was messing with his computer—but at least he looked satisfied.

Without a word, she left the bullpen, and she was less than surprised when he caught up with her at the elevator.

"Duck back from lunch yet?" he asked, a sour hint to his voice. Jenny flinched at the mention, just as aware as he was that Ducky was out to lunch with _Her_. Still, Jenny nodded.

"About an hour ago," she said. "He's dropping some of your things by tonight," she added.

Ducky had casually mentioned to her that he'd stop by later. She'd told him she would tell Noemi to expect him, but now it seemed she'd be there to welcome him herself. It wasn't something she was looking forward to, and it bothered her a great deal that Ducky had become the unfortunate go-between for Gibbs and his wife.

She tilted her head heavily and stared at the elevator doors, sighing. The elevator stopped at Autopsy, one floor above the garage level, and Gibbs stepped forward, sparing a moment to take her palm and press his thumb into it gently in a sort of comforting squeeze. She said nothing, and stared after him until the doors slid shut, and then she smiled a little, touching her hand absently where his thumb had been.

* * *

"Hey, Miller!"

Burley shouted the scientist's name into her lab, announcing his presence before he and Decker strolled in casually. Stan had gone from sulking over the cooling of his affair with Margaret—or rather, Margaret's icing of the affair, and his own wounded feelings over it—to acting as if nothing had happened at all, and Miller seemed to go along with it, grateful he was behaving maturely.

"You're not gonna believe what happened," Burley went on, coming to a halt and trailing off when he realized the woman in question was not at her customary post. He glanced around, and Decker craned his neck and then pointed into the back office.

"Ah," Burley said, and walked over to the automatic doors. The glass slid open, and Miller turned around, stopping mid conversation. She was perched on the edge of her desk—because evidently, there was someone sitting in her chair.

"Stan," she greeted mildly. "Hey, Deck," she said, a little more warmly. She shrugged a little. "Still don't nave the fiber analysis," she said. "Though I can give you some hypothesis on how I think the blood work for the other case is going to turn out, if Gibbs will take a guess."

"Yeah, fat chance," snorted Decker, shaking his head. "Naw, we came to gossip," he said, unashamed.

"Ooh, gossip!" the person occupying Miller's chair spoke up, her voice cutting through the air clear as a bird's song. "Juicy tidbits about my future co-workers?" the disembodied voice asked.

Burley inched over and craned his head around to try and look past Miller, but she made it easier and leaned back, giving them a full view of the woman relaxing in her office chair.

"Well, while you're here you might as well get acquainted with my replacement," Margaret said mildly, holding her hand out in welcome. "Meet Abby Sciuto. She'll be taking over for me when I go to Hopkins in January."

Abby Sciuto stood up, and both Decker and Burley stared at her with admirably neutral looks, taking in the unexpected sight before them. There was a lot of _black _and _skulls_ and _chains_ and _buckles_ and yet the woman standing in front of them had such a bright, eager smile on her face and such sparkling, perky eyes, that neither of them could quite figure out what they were looking at.

"Abby, Agent Stan Burley and Agent William Decker," Margaret said, pointing to each of them respectively.

"Um," Burley said eloquently.

Decker elbowed him, and Miller shot him a glare.

"Hi!" Abby breathed excitedly. She shuffled forward in her tall, red, _plastic_ platform boots and unexpectedly _hugged_ Burley around the neck, smiling a mile wide. "Stan? Is that short for Stanley? Because Stanley is such a fun name, there are so many good Stanleys like Kubrick and the Stanley Cup and Stanley Kowalski—well, I guess he wasn't a good Stanley," she paused and took a tiny breath, "and Burley? Cool! It fits because you're kind of a burly man," Abby fell silent, grinning still, and poking Burley's shoulder muscles.

She leapt back and held out her hand. He took it automatically and shook it.

"I'm Abby," she introduced again. "I like meeting new people."

"Um," Burley said again, and then he smiled, finding her optimism contagious. "Nice to meet ya, Abby."

She beamed, and then turned her assault on Decker—who was much more prepared for it. While she was regaling him with her chatterbox greeting, Burley raised an eyebrow at Margaret in amusement, and the forensic scientist just smiled and shrugged indulgently. She stepped closer and lowered her voice demurely.

"She's a little kooky," she murmured. "But most geniuses are."

"You two are the first real agents I've met," Abby announced, stepping back and clasping her hands. "Well, _NCIS_ agents. I did undergraduate research with some FBI boys in Louisiana—and, well, I've met Director Morrow, does he count as an Agent?"

"He used to be one," Decker said.

Abby waved her hand.

"I'll still say you guys were my firsts," she said, letting out a laugh.

"Both of us?" Decker asked slyly.

"At the same time?" Burley added wryly, earning a jab in the ribs from Miller.

Abby raised a brow.

"I'm a very adventurous woman," she said, and Burley immediately liked her even more—she was approachable, she seemed fun, she didn't scare him.

Decker pointed to her outfit with interest.

"I like the getup," he complimented. "I dated a girl like you once," he added.

"Purple lipstick gal?" Burley snorted under his breath, remembering that conversation they'd had at a crime scene ages ago.

Abby tilted her head, looking slightly confused. She put a hand on her hip.

"A scientist?" she asked, genuinely interested.

Decker had meant Goth, of course, and he looked a little confused and awkward himself—and that's when Miller jumped in and smoothly saved the scene.

"Where's Jenny?" she asked. "I was hoping Abby could meet one of the only other women here."

"That's what we were gonna tell you," Burley said, remembering their gossip and widening his eyes. He snapped his fingers. "Gibbs sent her _home_."

Miller's eyebrows went up.

Abby's face fell.

"Is she in trouble?" she asked, showing genuine concern for a complete stranger.

"Nah, she's never in trouble with Gibbs," snorted Burley, shooting a suggestive look at Decker. "No, get this, Maggie," Burley went on, getting back on track. "He sent her home because he thinks she's sick."

"That's _rare_," Miller snorted, not sure she believed it.

"He took her temperature and everything," Decker deadpanned.

Miller cocked an eyebrow wryly.

"How?" she asked.

Burley laughed. He demonstrated what Gibbs' had done on Decker's forehead and shook his head, sliding his hands into his pockets. He shrugged, lifting his eyebrows as if waiting for opinions.

"Jenny is your other team mate, right?" Abby asked.

"Yeah, she's our probie," Decker said. "Probationary agent," he clarified. "You'd like her. She's smart."

"Shepard's annoying," Burley said, rolling his eyes fondly. His beeper went off, and he unclipped it, checking the number. He made a face and started backing up. "Gibbs needs back-up," he said. "Nice to meet you, Abby!" he said, giving her a wave.

"You too, Stan-some!" Abby retorted, smirking at the nickname she'd just come up with.

He grinned and waved again, leaving them alone.

Miller frowned, folding her arms across her chest.

"It's a shame Shepard isn't here," she lamented. "I really did want you to meet a female agent, Abby, and you might not get to make her acquaintance any time soon if she ends up in California with this guy," Miller gestured warmly at Decker.

"Well, Shep isn't the only female agent upstairs. Sharp's up there, and so's Hunter—but they're sending Hunter to California soon, too," Decker said, as if suddenly remembering.

"Speaking _of_ that," Miller said, arching an eyebrow with mild curiosity. "Does Gibbs know that Jenny's up for that promotion?"

"Uh, she got it, Morrow gave it to her," Decker said, correcting Miller's uncertainty. He looked a little uncomfortable. "Er, no, Gibbs doesn't know. I don't think she…she vaguely implied he didn't need to know," Decker went on.

"Oh," Margaret said neutrally. "Well," she remarked, and fell silent for a moment. Miller sighed and shrugged her shoulders as if she were washing her hands of the whole thing. "I can't understand her sometimes. I think she's a masochist," she said matter-of-factly.

"Has to be," Decker said, with a dry smirk. "You've _met_ Gibbs," he drawled, reminding Miller of what kind of person one had to be to engage in a relationship with such a man.

"Ah," Abby piped up, looking smug. Her eyes sparkled. "So this mysterious Jenny I was supposed to meet must be sleeping with the infamous _Gibbs_."

"You're perceptive," Decker said, arching a brow.

"Not as perceptive as you are transparent," she returned good-naturedly.

He grinned at her.

"It kills me that I won't get to work with you," he said.

She lifted her shoulders angelically.

"I'm personally just over the moon to meet this legendary Leroy Jethro Gibbs," she said with an air of the whimsical.

Decker laughed a little.

"You gonna hug him like you did Burley and me?" he asked impishly.

Her eyes widened and she looked confused for a moment. She smiled brightly again, and nodded.

"Of course I'm going to hug him," she said earnestly. "I'm an equal opportunity hugger!"

* * *

Jenny cradled her aching head, and stared down at a cold mug of tea with heavy eyes. She was using every ounce of her energy to avoid moving, but in a cruel twist of fate, this migraine had sapped most of her energy, and her hand was shaking just the slightest bit. She had sat down with this cup of tea few hours ago when it was hot—Noemi had kindly fixed it before she left—and while she was waiting for it to cool and then pensively sipping on, it this headache had come out of nowhere and basically crippled her.

And to think, she'd been sitting her painfully doing nothing while her work called to her from the study. She was left to waste her time trying desperately not to move and dwelling on her thoughts, and many of her thoughts were making her head hurt more—many of them were centered directly around the small pile of personal things in her hallway that belonged to Jethro.

Ducky had brought the things by on his way home from work. She assumed he had received them from Diane when he had lunch with her, and Jenny was uncertain whether or not Jethro would be satisfied with what his wife had sent over. Presumably, she knew him well, but she was also furious with him, and Jenny wouldn't be surprised if he would be no better off.

The past week since he'd been unexpectedly forced into living with Jenny had been interesting to say the least—she'd asked Noemi to buy him a few things, and she knew he'd been by his house when he knew Diane was at work. It was awkward and difficult to navigate and it wasn't really _living_ together; he spent as much time at work as he always had.

His falling out with Diane had led to extra time, as he was no longer splitting it between work, Diane, and Jenny—but instead of filling the extra time with Jenny, he was working more, and she didn't know if it was because he couldn't figure out if she wanted him around, or if he didn't want to be around.

They hadn't discussed the new dynamic in their relationship—the removal of the mantle of secrecy—and really, Jenny didn't know if they were in a relationship. A sexual affair—even an emotional affair—was inherently different from a _relationship_. It wasn't as if his impending divorce meant they were a happy-go-lucky openly dating couple. The clandestine affair had been difficult and messy and stressful, but it had worked, it had meant neither of them had to define or really feel because they couldn't, and now she felt they were faced with definitions and emotions and neither of them understood what to _do_.

She didn't want to ask. It seemed to cliché and on top of that, it seemed hollow and childish. She knew on some intangible level that Jethro cared about her—he wouldn't have sent her home for a cold if he didn't. And she had known for a while now that she was, to put it whimsically, head-over-heels in love with him. But if she asked, she would have to make a decision, and she'd have to talk to him about California, and then once they started talking, she might tell him about her father—and the Frog—and she might invest too much in him, and then he might…not invest back.

Diane was his second—third—wife. She didn't know what had happened with his first wife, but she knew he didn't seem to have a spectacular track record with women; she'd been involved first hand in his poor decision making this time.

Jenny blinked, and that singular motion hurt her head. She feebly tapped the side of her cold cup, wishing her headache would go away for a mere minute so she could go upstairs to the dark and try to sleep. She could wrap that t-shirt Jethro had been sleeping in for the past few days around her and pretend he was snuggled up with her—

Her front door opened and then slammed loudly. She winced, and a throb of pain rippled through her. He was loud as he dropped his keys in the hall, too, and on top of being _loud_ he was home so _late_—Ducky had come by at seven; it had to be near ten now. At the first of his footfalls on her kitchen floor, she lashed out.

"Where have you been?" she snapped in a strained voice, her head still in her hands, eyes still cast down at the dregs of her cold tea.

It was a reactionary demand that created a tense atmosphere; it was a question he was accustomed to being asked from another woman, from his wife—and most recently, the subtext of that question had been his affair with Jenny, and Diane's suspicions of it.

"Work," he answered stiffly. "Feel any better?" he asked after a silent moment.

She made a soft, vague sound that he couldn't interpret.

"Worse?" he asked.

"Lower your voice," she requested.

He fell silent. He walked around the kitchen, agitated, and then he pulled out the seat across from her with a scraping noise and sat down. She closed her eyes lightly, willing her headache to go away, and he startled her by slamming his fist into the table.

Her head throbbed so violently she thought she was going to vomit.

"Dammit, Jethro," she moaned, slouching in defeat. She lay her head down on the table, just as he cursed under his breath,

"We're never gonna nail this bastard," Gibbs mumbled angrily.

She didn't know which bastard he was talking about. They were working an embezzlement case, a robbery-homicide, a sexual harassment, and another sexual harassment. There was something overtly sinister about the embezzlement case and something unoriginally frustrating about the robbery-homicide; he could be pissed about any one of their slimy perps.

"Jethro," she whined, sighing heavily. "Please be quiet. My head hurts."

"Don't have a basement to hide in," he deadpanned, and it brought a smile to her lips.

He missed his boat. _That_ was his problem.

Gibbs got up and went to the cabinets, opening them with careful quietness. He got a pan out as quietly as possible, and flinched when it made a clanging noise. She sighed again, groaning in annoyance.

"Noemi left pasta in the fridge," she murmured. "What are you doing?" she asked hoarsely, when she heard the stove click on.

He mumbled something.

"What? Speak up."

"Hey, you told me to be quiet," he teased.

"Gibbs," she sighed heavily. "This isn't funny."

"Making soup," he answered.

She pressed her lips together, and shifted, turning her head. She opened her eyes slowly, adjusting to the light again, and looked over at him. He was standing at her stove with his back to her.

"I said there's pasta in the fridge," she mumbled.

"Great," Gibbs grunted. "I'll eat it later. Soup's for you."

She blinked. The blink hurt.

"Why?"

"You're sick, aren't you?" he retorted, his back still facing her. "Soup helps sick."

Jenny stared at him hazily, swallowing hard. She just had a damn cold, magnified by this aggressive, out-of-the-blue headache. He'd made her work when she had the flu back in her earliest NCIS days. Now he was standing in her kitchen, the night of a day he'd sent her home early, making her soup for a _cold_.

It was _sweet_. It was a side of Jethro she knew existed, and very few people did.

She stood up, wrinkling her nose to keep her head from spinning, and wandered over slowly, looking around at what he'd gotten out of the cabinets—food she didn't even know she owned. He noticed her interest and snorted.

"Noemi buys stuff you never notice," he remarked.

Jenny inched up behind him and wrapped her arms around his middle, burying her face into his back and hugging him gratefully. He reached up, rubbed her hand mildly, and then unwound her arm, pulling her around to his side. He draped an arm over her shoulder and offered his for a pillow while he watched chicken broth boil.

She curled into his embrace and closed her eyes, reminded starkly of the flurry of things he made her feel. It was sweet and domestic, this soup, and it scared her at the same time it pleased her—and she couldn't quite pinpoint why.

* * *

It wasn't that she was opposed to his coming up behind her and spicing up her getting ready for bed routine—because that, in addition to the soup, was a welcome cure for headache—it was that her hips and her knee were bearing the brunt of his thrusts against the edge of her sink and the cabinets below.

She gripped the sink in front of her a little more tightly, until her nails were digging into the ceramic, and focused on his hand in her hair and splayed over her lower back. She bit her lip. He ran his hand up and down her spine, over her ribs, down over her lower abdomen, and he moved it around the towel she'd wrapped around herself after her shower. He stroked her and that was all it took this time; she gasped and shivered, letting go of the sink and reaching out in front of her. She gripped the faucet, knuckles turning white, and supported her forehead with her other hand, crying out softly in pain-mixed-pleasure when her hips slammed against the sink.

He groaned and moved his hand from her hair around to her mouth, touching her lips; she bit his thumb and dragged him over the edge with her teeth; he buried himself in her hard, his jeans brushing roughly against the backs of her bare thighs, and shuddered, his arm around her waist, holding her tightly against him.

She kissed his thumb. He squeezed her thigh and loosened his grip, slowly stepping back from her. She moaned softly, pushing her damp hair back out of her face, throwing it over her back. When he touched her hip again, pulling a little, she straightened up and turned around, and he pressed her into the small sliver of wall next to the doorway and glued his lips to hers.

She still tasted like toothpaste; she'd been brushing her teeth when he'd wandered into the bathroom and started to kiss her neck and run his hands over her—and when she'd leaned over to rinse her mouth, he'd kept her there.

Jenny adjusted the towel around her, tucking it back in securely. She pressed her palms against his chest, pulling him closer to her.

"Mmm," she mumbled into his lips. "God, that was good."

He nodded, a smug smirk spreading over his lips, still intent on kissing her senseless.

"You should do that more often."

"Yeah?"

"_Oh_, yeah."

He smirked again and pressed into her, kissing her passionately enough that she tilted her head back, lightheaded, and almost gasped for breath. It was as if he were making up for lost foreplay. She slid one hand down his chest and tucked her hand in the front of his unbuttoned, unzipped jeans.

"How's the headache?" he asked huskily, sucking on her lower lip, his teeth pricking her with some curious mixture of possession and gentleness.

She moaned, and licked her lower lip slowly, tilting her head forward to trick him into another one of those deep kisses.

"Subsiding. Bed?"

He nodded, and reached behind her, sliding his hand against her back as he flipped off the light switch, shrouding them in darkness save for the glow of the light in the bedroom. He didn't make any movement, though, he just kept kissing—and she couldn't blame him; she kissed back, loathe to stop. He was so consuming; he had so much power to _consume_ her.

"Jethro," she whispered, smiling a little. "Bed," she insisted, arching a brow—she was cold in only the towel; she was uncomfortable angled against the wall and the hand towel bar behind her.

"Sleep?" he asked lazily, nodding again.

She shook her head vaguely, lacing her fingers into his, and tugged him with her out of the bathroom. Casually, she let the towel fall as she walked. She was tired; she was relaxed, and he seemed unfazed that she was sick and looked pale and less-than-put-together and she wanted to kiss him some more.

She pulled him down on top of her on the bed, wrinkling up his shirt, and pulled it over his head. He closed his eyes with his bare chest hit hers and she wound her legs around his; he lowered his forehead to hers and his brow wrinkled.

"Your skin's hot," he muttered, half-concerned, half-interested.

She laughed hoarsely and put her lips next to his ear.

"You give me fever," she quipped sarcastically.

He rolled his eyes, smirked, and kissed her lips again.

Tonight, this one time, she wanted to fall asleep with his arm slung tightly over her waist.

* * *

Decker leaned over the body Ducky was elbow deep in, examining the guts with a mild, interested disgust. He glanced up at the good doctor, remaining silent until Ducky finished what he was so intent on doing.

"You know, William," Ducky sighed. "I never quite noticed how useful Gerald is until he's absent for a bit," he remarked, frowning. He stepped back and took off his gloves for a moment, popping up his transparent mask and wiping his brow. "You want the results of the Perry autopsy, I assume?"

"If you've got them," Decker said with a warm shrug. "I'm content to watch you poke around this guy's gut," he added under his breath.

"Things aren't quite _peachy_ up in the bullpen?" Ducky asked, raising his brow a bit sarcastically.

"Ha," Decker forced a laugh dryly. "Burley is really starting to get nettled about the dead ends in this embezzlement case and Gibbs is about to lose it, dealing with those two girls in the he-said, she-said case."

"I certainly hope Jethro is being kind and understanding to those poor women," Ducky remarked.

"Er," Decker answered, wincing. "Well."

Ducky looked shocked. He had never heard of Gibbs treating harmed women with anything but the utmost respect. Decker flushed a little, shrugging and averting his eyes.

"Turns out there's not much of a harassment case? One of the women is Petty Officer McGartland's girlfriend and the other…is apparently his girlfriend, too, and in order to not be blamed the secret girlfriend cried rape…"

"Oh." Ducky said flatly, nodding in understanding. "Well. In that case. I'm sure that is rather significantly uncomfortable for Gibbs."

"Yeah, universe has a sense of humor, eh?" Decker retorted drily. "Perry?" he prompted.

"Ah, yes," Ducky murmured. He went to his desk and swept his glasses off, digging through a neat stack of files for the report on Sergeant Perry. He squinted and looked up curiously. "I thought Jennifer was handling Perry?"

"She's taking the robbery aspect of it, working with Alexandria cops," Decker answered. "I'm down here for her since—" Decker stopped, fumbling his words as if he hadn't meant to keep talking. He winced and kept his mouth shut.

"Since what?" Ducky asked mildly, handing over the Perry file.

"Er," Decker responded. He seemed to be doing that a lot this morning. "I did her a favor, since she's upstairs throwing up and she's tryin' to hide it from Gibbs."

"She's still ill?" Ducky asked sympathetically.

"Uh…no. I don't…she looked fine," Decker answered vaguely.

Ducky looked at the agent for a moment, unsure of what was being said or insinuated—if anything even was being hinted at or alluded to. He let go of the Perry file and set his jaw, tapping it.

"My findings are congruent with what we hypothesized at the scene," he said. "The intruder broke in, took Perry by surprise, and fired two shots in quick succession into his stomach—accidental, probably, as most people do not usually aim for the stomach. You're most likely looking for someone who is either a rookie shooter, or just a terrible shot. Miller will have clear ballistics, though," he added.

The autopsy doors sung open and Jenny walked in behind Decker looking—just as he'd said—fine. She gave a small smile and her eyes fell to the file, and then she looked up at Decker and lifted her brows. He shrugged.

"Run of the mill, no surprises from Ducky," he said.

Jenny nodded, looking relieved.

"Good," she muttered. "The embezzlement case keeps getting stickier. I don't think Jeth—Gibbs can handle any more _surprises_."

Decker gave her a look that said he whole-heartedly agreed.

"Leave that on my desk?" Jenny asked, pointing to the file. "I'm going to stick around here for a minute," she said.

"No problem," Decker said with a shrug. "You want me to pick up the Perry results from Miller, too?"

"Nope. I'll do it on my way up," she answered, smiling again.

Decker noticed her face looked slightly paler than usual. She quirked up the corner of her mouth at him gratefully.

"Thanks for covering me," she added wryly.

"What're partners for?" he retorted rhetorically.

After all, that's what they'd be if she went to California—partners. Her smile faded a little at the mention and she swallowed, nodding cordially. She gave him a small, three-fingered wave as he left, and waited until the autopsy doors closed. She turned to Ducky and raised her eyebrows.

"Are you very busy, Ducky?" she asked, her hands folded behind her back politely.

"Not very, my dear, what can I do for you?"

"I could use a visit from the Earl," she said with a wry smile, and Ducky beamed at her, his face lighting up. He removed his mask and cap entirely and beckoned her over to his desk, where he opened a drawer and pulled out a tin of his treasured English tea.

"You've certainly come to the right place," he said warmly. "You know I cannot resist sharing my passion."

Jenny smiled and sat down when he indicated she could take his desk chair. She pushed her hair back and leaned over, watching him pull out an electric water heater and a teapot—she laughed, because Ducky had all the accouterments necessary for making tea, and that was odd because this was _autopsy_. But, that was Ducky. And she knew—at least, she had always been sure, he could be counted on.

She feared there was some awkwardness to their relationship now; they hadn't interacted much since Diane had served Gibbs with divorce papers. It was soon after that Jenny had figured out Ducky had introduced Gibbs to his current wife, and a few days after _that_ Ducky had gone with Diane to lunch—and in light of those events, Jenny had no idea where she stood.

"Is the tea medicinal or more to soothe the mind?" Ducky asked blithely.

"Ah, to soothe my stomach," she answered, wrinkling her nose. Ducky tilted his head with mild curiosity, and she sighed, making a face. "I'm still getting over my cold, my allergies," she explained. "My sinuses," she gestured to her nose and narrowed her eyes distastefully, "make me nauseous."

"Yes, naturally," Ducky said enthusiastically, and—perceptive as she was—Jenny immediately noticed the relief or…something in his tone and looked up, tilting her head at him intently and slowly taking the empty teacup he offered her.

"Did Deck tell you something else?" she asked uncertainly.

Ducky shook his head. Jenny frowned, almost glaring at him. She bit her lip and leaned back, feeling like she had just been admonished or—or something by Ducky, and finding that it made her feel small and chastised, like a child chided by her favorite grandparent. She chewed on her lip uncomfortably, reaching up to push her hair back again.

"Thank you for bringing Gibbs' clothes over the other night," she muttered gratefully. "I apologize for not being in a better mood," she added. "Sinuses," she said darkly, and Ducky hesitated—it was beginning to sound like an excuse; a smokescreen.

He chose not to say anything, though, and she seemed to notice, pressing her lips together anxiously and then biting the lower one again.

"Is everything okay, Ducky?" she asked in a small voice.

"Quite all right," he said cheerily.

Ducky wasn't sure it was all right, though. If Jennifer was in trouble in a bad way—if Gibbs had gotten this girl into _trouble_ and she was afraid to confront him about it, that would be the _last_ straw on Doctor Mallard's part; he'd lose all civility with Jethro—he wasn't sure he'd be able to speak to him cordially. It was easy to respect Gibbs the Agent, but if he was going to make so many stupid, hurtful mistakes—it was becoming harder to respect Jethro the Man.

Ducky poured Jenny a cup of steaming, fresh-brewed tea and smiled at her, handing it off. She took it hesitantly, lifting it to her nose to take a deep breath, and she kept her eyes averted. When she looked up, she pursed her lips, on the verge of a simple thank you—but she couldn't bring herself to say it.

Instead, she cleared her throat a little.

"Ducky," she began softly. She knew he was a good friend of Diane's and she had no idea what he thought of her right now, but she liked Doctor Mallard, she admired him and she wanted at least to try to tell him—

"I didn't mean for this to," she stopped, searching for the words. She held her mug tightly to comfort herself with the heat. "I didn't go after him deliber—" she broke off again, afraid her voice would shake if she tried to finish. "It just _happened_, Ducky," she said desperately.

Ducky put down the teapot firmly and looked her directly in the eye.

"Jennifer," he said sincerely. "I am not a man to pass judgment. I'm quite old, my dear. I have the gift of perspective. I do not think any less of you," he promised her, being honest with her and himself. He touched her hand gently. "I do hope you're all right," he said sweetly.

She smiled, her mouth shaking, and lifted the tea to her lips, taking a drink. Ducky perched on the edge of his desk and watched her intently. Jenny lowered her tea slowly; licking her lips and watching the steam curl slowly upward. She turned her head away and blinked, and lifted her hand and wiped away the tears that fell when her eyelashes hit her skin.

Ducky said nothing, because he sensed the tears had taken her by surprise, and if she was unprepared to cry, she was certainly unprepared to talk.

* * *

Emma Pierced rubbed the back of her neck and stretched, tapping a pencil against a file. She pushed a piece of paper towards Diane and leaned back, taking a drink of her post-work, wind down martini. She watched as Diane rested her head in her palm and read over the bulleted proposal. Diane shrugged her shoulders a bit; tilted her head back and forth thoughtfully. She pushed the paper back towards Emma. She nodded curtly and Emma sighed quietly.

"I'm sorry you come home from work to more work," Diane said sympathetically, wincing a little. She took a drink of her non-alcoholic beverage and twisted her lips in a frown.

Emma waved her hand.

"Don't worry," she said. "I offered to do this for you. I don't mind," she promised—and it was true; she was a corporate lawyer who was used to screwing CEOs out of their money; in this case she was just volunteering to help Diane screw her husband out of everything.

"Why the face, then?" Diane asked.

Emma shrugged, gesturing with her pinky to the paper.

"That's usually an offer I'd give to _startle_ an opponent," she remarked mildly. "It would be an outrageous point to begin bargaining at, not necessarily a legitimate demand. This is what you want me to ask him for?"

Diane swallowed hard, flicking her eyes at the list of demands again. She shrugged, and nodded, and Emma tilted her head, puckering her lips as if she were impressed, and didn't mind at all.

"You don't think it's reasonable?" Diane asked tensely.

Emma tilted her head back and forth again.

"It's a _lot_, Diane." Emma took another drink and shrugged bluntly. "He's a federal agent, he's not Warren Buffet."

"He never _buys_ anything," Diane retorted. "His paychecks just sit in his bank account gathering dust."

"You do pretty well in your line of work."

"What can I say?" Diane asked coolly. "I'm an expensive woman."

Emma smirked. She gestured at the paper again.

"I have to warn you that we may need to be willing to take hits on that," she said frankly. "You want to take his savings, several valuable items, his house and you're asking for alimony—that's going to be hard to wrangle."

"I have faith in you, Emma."

"Thanks," Emma said dryly.

Diane gave her friend a hollow smile, and pulled the list back to her, running over it again. None of this should come as a surprise to Leroy; she had told him point blank she was going to leave him but nothing but the bed he'd made _himself_ at some other woman's house.

"How good is his lawyer?" Emma asked mildly.

Diane frowned.

"I don't know," she said. "I'm sure he's using the same one."

"Male or female?"

"Male, definitely."

"Excellent," Emma said. "Male divorce lawyers are _much_ easier to manipulate and wear down. Does he pay alimony to his ex-wife?"

Diane nodded.

"How much, roughly?"

"Um," Diane faltered uncertainly. "That I don't know. He doesn't talk about her. I know her name was Stacy and he gets a bank statement once a month about the withdrawal."

"So you don't know if she's already employed?"

"Oh, she was a lawyer—why?"

"I just want to know as much as possible about his previous alimony arrangement."

"Why are you so antsy about the alimony?" Diane asked, exasperated. "I thought you'd be more concerned about being able to get the house."

"Well, alimony is difficult to swing if the wife has a job and was used to supporting herself before the marriage, which you were—men usually don't mind parting with houses, and he won't if he avoids home as much as you say," Emma paused, tilting her head suspiciously. "Is there some _reason_ I should expect a knock-down drag-out about the house?"

"It is his house, Em. We didn't buy it together_. I_ moved in with _him_."

Emma shrugged.

"So? Men are usually more concerned about cars and their money, not their houses; particularly if _you_ decorated and the whole thing has your touch," Emma smiled wryly. "You should probably expect him to ask for your BMW in return for the house."

"That doesn't make sense; I had the BMW before I met him!"

"My point _exactly_," Emma said, sticking her finger at the list firmly.

Diane shook her head.

"I have half a right to that house. I lived in it. It isn't right that I have to pick up and leave because he can't keep his dick in his pants."

"You know I agree, Diane," Emma said. "But you're the one who suggested it might be difficult to get him to give you the house; I need you to prepare me for what I'm facing."

Diane bit the inside of her cheek and leaned forward, pushing her hair back. She took another drink, sifting through words in her head while she tried to choose a sentence to put together. She chewed on her bottom lip, toying with the idea of telling Emma why Leroy might fight that particular demand so hard. It wouldn't really fit into an equitable division of the assets argument unless he was utterly willing to give it up, and she _knew_ he wouldn't be—he'd already made that clear.

She hadn't ever told anyone but her mother about Leroy's little tragic secret, though. It didn't seem right to tell Emma.

"He's going to put up a fight," she said dully, remaining purposely vague. "He's had the house since…his first marriage. He's attached."

Emma sighed heavily, and nodded once.

"Well. I'm telling you to be prepared to compromise on something. It may come down to us bargaining something for the house, and you have to be willing to back off alimony and trade some of his money."

Diane gave her friend a tightlipped look.

"Don't let him talk us down easily, Emma," she said coldly. "Don't give him anything until you talk to me."

"No, of course not. We need to set up a mediation."

"Good luck getting in touch with him."

"Have you spoken to him recently?"

"Not since I went up to NCIS and told him I was taking him to the cleaners."

Emma nodded.

"Best to let the talking go through me from now on," she said. She leaned forward, quickly finishing off her martini, and spread her hands out. "You do have an advantage. This isn't just a case of irreconcilable differences; he committed adultery. That carries some weight. Especially if it can be proved."

"He won't lie about it," Diane said, shrugging. "He doesn't lie."

Emma snorted.

"He doesn't," Diane said. "It seems unreal, but it's true. He's never lied to me."

"He had an affair, Diane."

"Ah, that's a different kind of lie. That's an omission."

"Semantics," murmured Emma, vaguely admiring her friend's ability to think of it in a relatively kind way.

Diane smiled painfully. She tapped her finger against her glass.

"I told my parents about the divorce," she confessed quietly.

"Oh," Emma said with a slow nod. "How did that go?"

Diane shrugged, and fell silent.

It hadn't been as bad as she had expected. She'd finally gotten up the courage to do it, bracing herself for all sorts of admonishments and condescension's, and when she'd said it out loud to her mother…all Teresa had said was _I'm so sorry, Diane_. And when Diane had gone further, and admitted that Leroy had been having an affair, it was the same thing—_I'm so sorry, Diane_. No 'I told you so', no superior, annoying lecture. It was comforting; her mother didn't want her to be so hurt, but she had tried to preempt it—to warn against it.

"She tried to convince me to move back to Seattle for a while," Diane said. She tilted her head. "Mom doesn't understand that my entire life here…it isn't all rooted to Leroy. I have a job, I have friends," she trailed off, shrugging again. "I like DC."

"Good," Emma said. "Seattle's much too far away, and much less exciting. There's a reason you and I came out here," the lawyer grinned, pushing back her bleached blonde hair and stretching. She pushed away the list of demands. "I hope you know you can stay here as long as you need to, Diane."

"I'll get out of your hair soon," Diane promised anyway. "It's driving me crazy. I need to get on my feet, move on," she muttered.

"Can I ask you something?" Emma asked neutrally.

Diane waved her hand and nodded.

"Why are you so adamant that we take everything? Aren't you just eager to get _out_?"

Diane froze, and then blinked. She bit her lip and leaned back, slumping her shoulders. She didn't know how she would come off if she tried to explain it—would she sound pathetic, petty, stupid, bitchy? She'd never really explained it out loud before, not to anyone but Leroy—and she knew to him, she only ever sounded like a nag. She put her hands on the table in front of her, each cupped as if she were holding a mug.

"I have to fight him," she began slowly. "I have to make him hate me, make him fight me back, and I have to remember that he betrayed me. Does that make sense? I have to take the things that mean a lot to him because I have to make him hurt as badly as he's made me hurt, and I can't let my guard down for a minute, because if he does one of his little Leroy things, his sweet gestures—I'm…afraid I'll lose my resolve."

Diane furrowed her brow and wrinkled her nose, not so sure she was proud of what she'd said.

Emma made an annoyed noise in the back of her throat and put her fist on the table lightly, throwing her hand out vaguely. She shook her head a little and lifted her arm, almost looked sorry.

"And for Maria, I have to ask—how? _How_ can you still be in love with _him_, Diane? He's a bastard. He's selfish, he's cold, he cheated on you, _broke_ your heart—_how_?"

Diane looked away. It was a question she didn't want to answer. She just threw her hands up carelessly. How was she supposed to answer that anyway? It wasn't as if she could explain why she'd fallen in love with him in the first place—she just _loved_ him. The love between two people—or the love one person felt was never going to be comprehended by someone who didn't feel that specific, unique _love_.

"Emma," she said tense, sighing uncomfortably. "I _am_ mad at him. I can't forgive him, but I can't just—_flip a switch_," she said. "The parts of Leroy I fell in love with are still there. The good, the charming, the humor, it didn't just disappear. He's made horrible choices and he has really walked all over me but it doesn't change that I _fell in love with him _because at some point it _was_ good. And this…it doesn't necessarily erase that."

Diane swallowed hard and picked up her glass, looking at her friend harshly over the rim of it.

"_That_ is what I have to get over."

* * *

Crime scenes that manifested in the middle of the night were never good things, and this one was no exception.

Her hair was still wet when they arrived at the home of the Halston's; she tied it up quickly, swallowing and blinking earnestly to adjust her eyesight to the flashing lights. Sirens filled her ears and she shivered—Gibbs had pulled her out of the shower with a short demand that she get dressed for a crime scene, and she'd barely had time to dry off and find appropriate boots, pants, and NCIS t-shirt.

This scene was fresh.

Burley stormed past her, swearing under his breath. Dark circles rimmed his eyes—this embezzlement case, it seemed, had taken a turn for the murderous, and embezzlement was already Burley's hot button issue. The extent of Jenny's knowledge about what had happened came fromm Gibbs, and he didn't know much—the NCIS switchboard had received a panicked, garbled call from Mrs. Halston, and so here they were.

"You guys NCIS?"

Gibbs nodded to the local officer, and the young man shook his head, looking sick, and tipped his hat, letting them through and pointing them to the house.

"Prepare yourself," he muttered.

Gibbs ignored the man and kept walking; but Jenny paused.

"What happened?" she asked.

The local LEO shook his head again and rubbed his neck, his jaw set tightly.

"It's bloody," was all he said.

Jenny shot a frown at Decker and put her hands in her pockets, following them in. Burley walked out of the house, shouted something to a LEO, and stepped back to let her in before him, giving her a nod as she moved past him. She walked in the front door, glanced around the room, and stepped back involuntarily. In the split second she took in the scene, she saw _blood_, Gibbs trying to coax away a hysterically sobbing woman, several paramedics—and a dead little girl on the living room floor.

Without thinking, Jenny made one of the biggest mistakes an agent could make—she stopped in her tracks, gasped, and let out an exclamation of horror.

"Oh my _god_," she said thickly, tears springing to her eyes.

She whirled around and slammed into Burley. He caught her arm tightly in surprise, and then he yanked her back instinctively—right as she heard Gibbs bark:

"Stan, get her ass out of here!"

But his tone and the anger in his voice told her he wasn't _concerned_ about her reaction to what she'd seen; he was _pissed_. She didn't have much time to consider it, though; Burley grabbed her shoulder and nearly shoved her back out of the house, dragging her off to the side in the front yard.

He let go of her arm and pushed her back a little, rounding on her harshly.

"What's the matter with you, Shepard?" he demanded. "Can't you keep your cool at a crime scene? _Jesus_!"

She covered her mouth and looked away; well aware she was in the wrong. She couldn't control her reaction—she'd _never_ had a case that involved a dead child before. Burley snapped at her as if trying to make her look at him.

"You think that mother needs to see you freaking out over what's in there? She's already gotta live with it!"

"Shut-up, Stan, I'm already gonna get this from Gibbs!" Jenny fired back loudly, drawing a few looks from people at the scene. She held out her hand shakily. "I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_," she apologized. "What _happened_ in there?" she demanded.

Burley stood looking at her for a moment, still in a rage, and then he just seemed to deflate and his shoulders sagged; he stepped closer, the dark circles under his eyes seeming more prominent—they were all exhausted from the past week or so; he was able to understand why Shepard had been unable to hold back.

The little girl's body wasn't a pleasant sight, even for steeled investigators' eyes.

"Don't know yet," he said gruffly. "Someone tried to kidnap the Halston's daughter. Mrs. Halston fought hard."

Jenny looked away again. She blinked, and reached up to furiously swipe stray tears away, tightening her jaw and biting her lip harshly. She touched her mouth, as if trying to hold her lips still and keep them from trembling.

"Uh, look, Jenny," Burley mumbled, scratching his head uncomfortably. "You gonna be okay?"

She didn't answer, and before she could, Decker came out and was approaching them. He only looked at Burley, and spoke in a low voice.

"Mrs. Halston has a few minor stab wounds, and one big one," he muttered. "Gibbs can't get her to leave the scene. Paramedics are going to sedate her," Decker paused and tapped Jenny's shoulder. "Gibbs wants you to ride with her to the hospital," he said.

Jenny nodded curtly, and chewed her lip. It wasn't a privilege to be given that task; it was almost a demotion. She wasn't sure she cared, though, because she wasn't entirely sure she could handle the crime scene.

"Don't worry too much, Shepard," Decker said gruffly. "Uh, this is, uh," he fumbled his words. "Look, this scene's pretty bad. By any standards," he tried to comfort her. "Even, uh, Gibbs…Gibbs isn't good."

"Gibbs is a rock," scoffed Burley.

Decker shrugged, not so sure. The Boss looked pretty pale by Boss standards, and he sure as hell wasn't comfortable with the dead girl's mother sobbing and bleeding all over him. Come to think of it—if the vague, haunted look in Gibbs' eyes was anything to go by, Decker wasn't entirely sure Gibbs had ever had point on a case with a dead kid. They weren't too common for NCIS—Decker had only had one, and it hadn't been this brutal.

Gibbs…maybe had only ever had—well, his own daughter's. Decker wasn't sure, and it wasn't something he could explore with his colleagues; neither Jenny nor Burley knew about what had brought Gibbs to NCIS.

Decker reached up to rub his jaw, and their little circle was interrupted by the approach of Ducky.

"Why are the three of you convening out here?" he asked solemnly. Decker vaguely pointed to Jenny and Ducky made a circle with his lips, quietly acknowledging that he understood. He pointed towards the house. "It was unclear whether my services were needed?"

"They are," Burley said gruffly. "The little girl was dead when paramedics arrived."

Jenny covered her mouth. She took a deep breath and forced all of her feelings to some dark recess of her mind, and when she felt she was good, she braced her shoulders and pushed past Decker and Burley—her timing was impeccable, she met Gibbs coming out of the house.

He gave her a hard, almost unforgiveable look.

"Jethro—"

"Do _not_ apologize, Agent Shepard," he barked, and his use of her title stung almost as much as the coldness his words were delivered with. "Do your job," he snapped, and moved her out of the way as paramedics left the house with Mrs. Halston on a stretcher. "Follow with her to the hospital. Take her statement when her health's clear and she's lucid. I need you back at headquarters by six a.m.," he ordered. He reached into his pocket and took out the car keys, thrusting them at her.

Jenny caught them and swallowed hard. She looked up and gave Gibbs a curt, businesslike nod; she turned on her heel sharply, prepared to leave, and he reached out and grabbed her shoulder firmly. She turned back around, setting her jaw tightly. It was then she noticed that there was blood staining the front of his shirt.

"Don't ever visibly react at a scene in front of the victim," he warned. "Rule nineteen: keep it together for the family."

She gripped the keys tightly and turned, letting his hand slide unceremoniously off of her shoulder—she felt his eyes burning into her back as she walked away stiffly, and used all of her energy to compose herself so that she would be ready to take the statement at the hospital.

* * *

It was a kidnapping gone catastrophically wrong that led to the brutal death of five-year-old Nina Halston. Chief Petty Officer Halston was the whistleblower on the embezzlement case they had been working for _weeks; _they had believed his name was kept out of the records and yet the three men involved in the criminal activity had apparently ferreted out his name.

"Calvin Mycroft is dead," Decker said in a dull voice, drawing a long read line over a photo on their bulletin board. "He was killed in a car accident trying to outrun Halston. From what I can tell, Bradley Vincent was not involved in this plot, and we still have no information as to the whereabouts of Cassandra Abbott—but she was there, she was helping Mycroft take Nina Halston."

"They were going to use the girl as leverage against Chief Petty Officer Halston," Burley took over, using a laser pointer to show the evidence they had of it. "They were going to trade her safety to scare Halston into refusing to testify against them," Burley hesitated. "Nina was supposed to be with a babysitter tonight; Mycroft and Abbott didn't know the Halstons had changed plans."

"When they showed up to snatch Nina Mrs. Halston put up a struggle," Decker said, his voice slightly pained. He looked over at Jenny, who held up the file in her hands a little shakily and cleared her throat; it was futile, her voice as still hoarse when she spoke.

"Alison Halston was getting ready for bed when Mycroft broke in. She heard Nina start to cry, and went into the room, where she found Mycroft with a knife. He was caught off guard; she rushed at him and began screaming for her husband, who came up from the basement. Mrs. Halston got ahold of Nina's arm and tried to pull her away, at which point it appears Mycroft slit the child's throat with a knife," Jenny paused, swallowed, and ploughed on dully. "The child's neck was also broken in the attempt to keep her from being taken, though it's—" and this was the hardest part for Jenny "—unclear if her neck was broken by the assailant, her mother, or a fall to the floor."

When Jenny stopped, there was silence in the bullpen. Decker lowered the hand using the laser pointer, and Gibbs leaned forward, rubbing his jaw roughly with his hand. He sat still, staring directly ahead of him. It seemed impossible that a petty case of embezzlement had escalated so suddenly into something so despicable—and twenty-four hours ago, no less.

Gibbs finally said something.

"Do we know if Cassandra Abbott was at the scene?" he asked blankly.

"Uh, yes," Burley said, turning and shuffling through some statements. "Halston saw her running away from a car when he chased Mycroft outside. Presumably she was the get away driver and…bailed when the scene got ugly," He explained. "She was in the house with Mycroft initially, and she appears to have taken the murder weapon. The knife. She was struggling with Mrs. Halston…she got away on foot."

Gibbs fell silent again. He stood up, and looked at them all harshly.

"Your main priority is to find me Cassandra Abbott. We hunt her down, we bring her in, and we _crucify_ her."

He didn't say anything else. He threw his empty coffee cup into the trashcan with violence that made Jenny flinch—and she stared after him hollowly, her throat tightening up again. She stood up abruptly and leaned forward, almost exactly mimicking his hard-liner stance.

Burley looked at her with his tired, dead eyes.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked, that little girl's mangled body flashing before her eyes. "Let's find the cunt."

* * *

Gibbs walked for miles to find a place open and selling coffee at this hour. He couldn't remember what he'd ordered or the name of the joint he bought it from; he didn't take a damn sip on the trudge back he just let the heat scald his hand and stared directly in front of him. He felt numb; he was using most of his strength to stay numb—and cold, and focused, and hollow.

He didn't have the liberty of reacting like Jenny had at the crime scene, even if every fiber of his being had instinctively wanted to drop to his knees and cover his eyes. He _wasn't_ experienced in this. He _had_ dealt with kidnappings, and brutal murders—serial killers, robbers, bad, bad men. He'd been in war. But not _this_, he hadn't yet had a case that focused on the ruthless killing of an innocent little girl. He and Mike Franks had never once handled something like this, and here he was coming across it for the first time and he had Shepard on his hands to deal with.

As painful as her upset at the crime scene had been, it was a bit of a relief to see—it was good to know he wasn't the only one who had wanted to turn and run. She was young and she was new; she was allowed that mistake or that weak stomach; he wasn't. He had to step up and drag Alison Halston away from her daughter's body—he had to hold her back and _feel_ her crying and try to tell her that she needed to calm down when he knew there was no calming down.

Gibbs stepped on the elevator at NCIS—he watched the doors closed and looked down; his eye caught the bloodstains on his shirt and he lunged forward, panicking, shutting the elevator down. He leaned back against the wall and popped the top off his coffee, staring morbidly into the black brew.

For a horrible moment, he was glad he'd lost Shannon and Kelly at the same time because he couldn't imagine seeing Shannon like he'd seen Alison Halston. He couldn't comprehend how unbearable it would be to try and balance the pain of losing Kelly with being the shoulder for his wife to cling to.

Gibbs tipped the coffee to his lips and burned his tongue and throat drinking it, closing his eyes tightly and making a face as it lit up his gut. Chief Petty Officer Halston was unhelpful—he was a mess, but he insisted hanging around, determined to find the woman who'd help murder his daughter.

The elevator seemed to spin and Gibbs opened his eyes, tilting his head back. He stared at the ceiling hazily, and in a sick twist of fate, he found himself itching for Diane. Diane knew about Shannon and Kelly; Diane at least knew to watch him drink until he couldn't think and then sleep next to him so he didn't feel so alone—therein lay the safety and relief in Diane; _she_ was privy to this secret.

He touched his beeper. What would he say if he called her?

He didn't know—and it would hurt Jenny. It would hurt her as badly as it had hurt her when she'd figured out he slept with Diane again, and she hadn't been able to say anything about it. He'd already hurt Diane badly; he didn't want to inflict any sort of misery on Jenny.

Gibbs swallowed another mouthful of hot-numbing coffee and flicked the elevator on violently, letting it groan to a start and then drag up to the correct floor. He stormed out with his game face on, his eyes hard, gathering ever last inch of his energy to bury everything that weighed on him in the black recesses of his mind.

But all they had for him was bad news.

"Gibbs," Jenny said, standing up fromm his chair the moment she saw him. Her eyes seemed to shiver as she looked at him, and she pushed her hair back, taking a deep breath. She said:

"Alison Halston killed herself."

* * *

Alison Halston had locked herself in the bathroom and opened both of her wrists; it had been too late to save her when a nurse had finally been able to break down the door, and now Gibbs sat across from her husband in the interview room saddled with the daunting task of finding some way to give this man who had just loss everything a _reason _to live.

Chief Petty Officer Halston held a cup of office coffee in his hands. He stared into it silently, his face an unreadable blank mask. He hadn't been at the hospital with his wife; he'd been here at NCIS—trying to find some closure for their daughter. He'd left his things at the hospital—including his pocketknife, unbeknownst to the nurses, and Alison Halston hadn't been on suicide watch.

The man finally took a drink of coffee, and his expression didn't change.

"You saw Cassandra Abbott fleeing the scene?" Jenny asked, speaking from the chair next to Gibbs.

Halston nodded curtly.

"She took the knife," he said. "I went after Mycroft," he said bluntly. "I shoulda chased her down," he muttered, and looked up at Jenny. "Right? Her. I could've caught her. You guys could have tracked Mycroft's license plate easier than find her, right?" he asked.

Jenny didn't answer him. She lowered her head and wrote down his statement about Cassandra Abbott, and Gibbs could sense it was because she had no idea what to say. Halston went silent again, too. He ran his finger around the rim of his cup, and his brow knit together as if he were confused.

"I should have stayed with Allie," he said. He looked up at Gibbs this time. "I should have stayed with Allie at the hospital, right?"

Gibbs moved his hand slightly, but Jenny answered.

"It wasn't your fault," she said.

"It was my pocket knife."

"Her decision," Jenny said, her voice edgy.

"She didn't have anything left!" Halston defended, anger flaring.

"Shepard," Gibbs said, but she ignored im.

"She had _you_," Jenny pointed out harshly. "You needed her. Her _suicide_ isn't _your_ fault," she spat.

Halston covered his face, and Gibbs stood up, taking Jenny's arm above the elbow and lifting her up with him. He marched her over to the door, took the pen in her hand away from her, and kept his back to Halston, getting up in her face. It wasn't necessary for him to say anything; she averted her eyes and swallowed hard.

"Sorry," she muttered.

"Get out," he ordered, and reached behind her and opened the door.

He all but kicked her out of the interview room, and she slammed the door—probably to get back at him. Gibbs stared at the door a moment, the noise ringing in his ears, and turned around. Halston was staring at his coffee again.

"I'm deploying in three weeks," he said dully. "Nina didn't want me to go. She's—she was—just gettin' old enough to understand," he went on, almost talking to himself. Gibbs sat down and didn't interrupt him. "She was afraid I wouldn't come back. Tried to explain it was just Germany," Halston paused, and shook his head. "Best part about a deployment was her runnin' towards me when I got back," he looked up, a lost, hollow look in his eyes. "She'll never run to me again," he said slowly, the words falling coldly.

Halston looked at Gibbs.

"You know how that _feels_?" he asked hoarsely.

Gibbs' words slammed together in his throat. He lifted his shoulders stiffly, still trying to navigate how to lead this kind of case when it hit home so hard and he just said—it just _slipped_ out—

"Yeah."

Halston looked angry for a moment. He tensed, as if he might lash out at Gibbs, shout at him for daring to try to empathize, but when he met the agent's eyes, all of that faded and he visibly slumped, holding his hand up to his forehead.

"You do, don't you?" he muttered, almost in disbelief. He squeezed his hand into a fist on his forehead, and lifted up his coffee cup. His hand shook; he set it back down. Staring down at his hand over the coffee cup yet again, he closed his eyes. "Does it get better?"

Gibbs couldn't find some blank point to focus on and keep him anchored to the case; he wasn't sure he had realized how much he hadn't even dealt with Shannon and Kelly's deaths until this second—there had been Stacy, and then Diane, Kyle Boone, and Jenny, and _distractions-distractions-distractions_—

"No."

He heard himself say it.

Halston nodded. He rubbed his jaw tensely, and took a drink of the coffee.

"Find that woman, Agent Gibbs," Halston said coldly. "Find her, and bring her down. Or I will."

As a vivid, bloodstained memory flashed before his eyes, Gibbs nodded; he had no doubt Halston meant it with every fiber of his being when he said he'd hunt the last person responsible down.

* * *

It was easy for her to see that Gibbs was out of it; distracted but obsessed and a whole slew of other things that he wasn't doing a good job of disguising. It was late—well after three in the morning—and she was exhausted and as frustrated as he was. She sat on the floor near his feet, leaning against his desk, while he leaned forward on his knees staring at his hands—and it felt like they'd been sitting this way for hours.

They couldn't find Cassandra Abbott.

"Are we _sure_ it was a suicide?" Jenny asked quietly. "Abbott didn't get to Mrs. Halston at the hospital?"

Gibbs cut her an annoyed look and shook his head curtly.

"It's a damn suicide, Jen," he growled harshly. "Why're you so hung up on that?" he looked down at his hands narrowly and glanced around at the dark and empty bullpen.

"I—" Jenny began, nettled by his meanness. She struggled to put it into words. "She just…she abandoned her husband," Jenny said desperately. "It was selfish."

Gibbs nodded abruptly.

"And now I gotta keep Decker and Burley on Halston to watch 'im for the same reason," he growled.

"Halston's not a suicide risk," Jenny asserted.

"You think?" Gibbs asked sarcastically.

She shook her head fiercely.

"No. He isn't the type, Gibbs. He's proud. He's honourable."

"Suicide was a point of pride for Samurais."

"Suicide was a result of disgrace, a last ditch attempt at false dignity for samurais," Jenny scoffed violently. "Halston won't do it. He's military. It's against the code. It's the yellow way out."

Gibbs looked at his hands.

"Even Marines have a point, Jen," he said in a dull voice.

"Not everyone has that point, Jethro!" she said, her voice rising at bit shakily. "Some people would never commit suicide—no matter the circumstance!"

She thought of her father—her father who abhorred the idea of suicide with all of his heart, and whom they wanted her to believe had snapped and shot himself out of shame for something _he didn't do_.

"Everyone has that point," Gibbs repeated stonily. He locked his fingers together, his elbows on his knees, molding his hands almost as if he were holding a gun—sitting in very much the same way he'd sat in front of his family's graves, with a pistol in his hands.

"Maybe if they had a terminal illness," Jenny snapped sarcastically. She looked away, crossing her arms over herself. She rubbed her shoulder self-consciously, attempting to comfort herself. She resisted the urge to bite her nails like an anxious teenager.

Gibbs just shook his head, a muscle in his jaw flexing—tightening.

"You reach that point, and you find something to live for," he said tersely, "or you don't."

"You can live without a reason!"

Gibbs shook his head.

"You ever had a reason not to live, Jen?"

"There's _always_ something to fight for."

"Fighting ain't living."

She stared at him a little helplessly, her lips parted in protest. It was the most stressful conversation she'd had with him—it was personal and raw and Jethro didn't _do_ that; she barely did that.

"There's always a reason, Jethro," she said earnestly.

What was he trying to _tell_ her?

He looked over at her blankly. She met his eyes and swallowed, a lump rising in her throat. She lifted her shoulders and held a hand out, her palm upturned towards him unthreateningly. Her eyes stung.

"What was your reason, Jethro?" she asked hoarsely.

He narrowed his eyes, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

"What?" he asked gruffly, blinking.

"When you hit your point," she said, going farther than she'd ever gone with him. "That's what we're talking about, isn't it? Your first wife," she went on hesitantly. "What was your reason?"

The look he was giving her was almost one of shock, as if he didn't understand how she knew. He sometimes forgot he had told Jen about Shannon—if what he had said could be construed as telling the story in any broad definition.

He didn't answer. He couldn't, and in a hostile way, he didn't want to share that with her. It was impossible to explain that the same thing that had put him at _that point_ had stopped him from pulling the trigger; he had shared too many conversations with Shannon about the possibility of his death, too many conversations in which they discussed what could happen and had both sworn that they'd find a way to be happy, saying the same thing Jen was saying now—there was always something to live for. He had managed to respect her memory enough not to put a bullet in his head, but he couldn't find a way to be happy without her.

Gibbs shook his head gruffly and narrowed his eyes, hardening them. He started thinking about Diane again, and he cut his eyes to Jenny.

"How did you know I slept with Diane?" he asked out of the blue.

Jenny looked pale; caught off card.

"She's your wife," she snapped back bitterly.

Gibbs gave her a bare look; she knew what he meant. She frowned, swallowing hard, and lifted a nail to her mouth, biting it hard between her teeth.

"It was in your eyes," she said around the finger, her voice hollow. "It—you wouldn't look me in the eyes," she said. Her brow furrowed and she snorted, throwing up defensive walls. "Why? You miss her?"

It was complicated. Diane _was_ his wife; she had experience in areas Jenny didn't. She had seen it all.

"Go home, Jenny," Gibbs said gently.

Her tired eyes met his.

"Come with me," she said. She reached out and touched his hands, leaning forward. Her fingers laced into his and she held on. "We've exhausted all resources, Jethro," she said softly.

The trail was cold; there was nothing he could possibly do at this moment—not until they got a tip, or a lead, or something. He needed sleep. He needed a fresh perspective on a new morning. He needed—to work it out on his damn boat, probably, but he couldn't. And she couldn't offer him that kind of therapy at her house.

She stood up when it became clear he was ignoring her. She let her hand linger on his for a moment and then pulled it back; she leaned over and kissed his temple, resting her forehead against him for a brief moment. It was comforting to her; she had no idea if I was any comfort to him. She had reached a point at which she couldn't understand him; he was scaring her.

"I'll bring you coffee in the morning," she murmured.

She went to her desk and gathered her things, pushing her hair behind her ears tensely. It didn't matter that she had to be back here in roughly three hours; she suddenly felt the unbearable need to get home and escape from this case for a split _second_. It was getting to be too much—this, on top of the mess her personal life was in because of him, and to have that stress compounded by the gore and toll of this case…she felt dangerously close to a sobbing breakdown, and she couldn't have Jethro around for that.

She was _in_ the elevator when he caught up to her, and she gave him a stark, startled look, biting her lip to hold back a curse. She hurriedly tried to compose herself, because she'd just _almost_ thought it was safe to start crying when he shoved the doors open and slipped in with her.

He had to be with her, or he was going to call Diane—but his need to call Diane was out of selfish habit, because Diane knew about his past, and he couldn't let himself do that to her when he knew damn well the woman he _wanted_ was right in front of him.

He flipped the elevator's switch and the machine shuddered to a stop.

He stepped closer to her, hands going firmly to her hips, and she gasped, dropping her purse and jacket to the floor. He lowered his mouth to hers for a bruising kiss while her lips were still parted and she stumbled back, grabbing his lapels and dragging him closer, seizing the opportunity with violence and need that gripped her out of nowhere and yet matched the need for oblivion that was so obviously driving him.

He pushed her jeans down her thighs and lifted her out of them, pinning her to the wall possessively. There was no finesse, so courtesy; it was all brutality on _both_ sides and it hurt physically when he thrust into her prematurely and it hurt emotionally when she threw her head back into the wall and realized he didn't care about how she felt right now; he was _using_ her—as an object to take something out on, using her when she didn't want to be used.

She scratched her nails down his back beneath his shirt. He hardly paid attention to her; his lips barely brushed hers in any sort of intimate touch—he was unconcerned with her pleasure; she slipped her hand between them to take care of that herself, and snapped with her arm around his neck, clinging to him.

"Jenny," he mumbled huskily, burying his face in her neck.

She tilted her head up, tightening her legs around his waist—for a moment, she didn't trust him to hold her up, but he did, and when he stepped away from her abruptly she gasped, unaware she'd lost her breath. Her heart slammed against her chest and her hands shook when she tried to button her jeans again. She lifted her hands up and covered her eyes—this was seedy, fucking in the elevator at work after hours, trying to use each other like some…_anti-depressant_.

They were adults; they should know how to conduct themselves better than this.

Gibbs touched her hands—so gently she was almost afraid it wasn't him. He lightly coaxed them away from her face, his eyes finding hers cautiously. She licked her lips and slipped out of his grip, sitting down slowly on the floor of the elevator. She pushed her hair back, sitting in his shadow, and then he sank down next to her, staring up at the ceiling.

Jenny leaned over and laid her head in his lap, sliding her hand around his shins to hug them. She took a few deep breaths, trying to process what had just happened, blinking as if that would bring some light into this darkness that had fallen.

"Jethro," she said shakily. Her lips brushed his jeans. "What's wrong with you?" she asked sincerely. She closed her eyes, tightening her grip on him. "You're okay, Jethro."

She didn't need him to answer her; she wanted him to know she was worried, and he'd scared her—but he hadn't scared her away.

* * *

She'd woken up shaking and sweaty, disoriented and wondering if she'd screamed in her dream or out loud in her sleep. She hadn't been sleeping well lately, and in her exhaustion she couldn't fight down the nausea the nightmare left her with so she'd bolted to the bathroom. Her stomach had been empty, and her abdomen and her throat hurt from heaving.

She was rinsing her mouth out with mouthwash that stung and made her eyes burn when she realized Jethro had been in bed with her when she'd snapped out of her nightmare. He must have left work after all, though she'd been sure he was going to sleep at his desk again—if he slept at all.

Two weeks and they had not hide or hair of Cassandra Abbott; they had other, fresher cases, and she and Gibbs couldn't seem to let that one go—they were clashing, arguing, around each other way too much; this living arrangement was bringing out the worst in their volatile natures.

The honeymoon, to put it bitterly, was over.

She spit in the sink and put her hand to her mouth, swallowing the last bits of mouthwash and closing her eyes tightly. Her hands were still shaking. She wondered if she'd woken him up—she opened her eyes open, flinching in the sudden light, and she vaguely remembered his hand grasping for hers as she'd stumbled out of bed.

She turned the water on and splashed her face, taking a deep breath; if he was awake, she needed a little composure.

She opened her bathroom door, resting her hand on the light switch; her bedroom lamp was on, and he was sitting up in bed, his arms slung loosely over his knees. He looked over when he heard her and raised his head. She let her hand linger on the light, unsure if she wanted to shut herself back in the bathroom or not. She ultimately decided against it, and turned the light off, walking back towards the bed.

She rubbed her arms; it was chilly in the room, and she was only sleeping in his t-shirt.

Jenny stopped at the edge of the bed, lifting one leg and resting her knee on the strewn about covers. She chewed on her lip, and she didn't know why she felt so uncomfortable—except she felt so vulnerable. There had been a time when she woke up from these nightmares and wished he was here, and now he was, and she didn't know what his reaction would be.

"Jen?" he asked quietly. "You okay?"

She tried to answer, and her throat didn't work. She cleared it, and nodded, finding her voice this time.

"Yeah," she said unconvincingly. "Yeah, I…yeah."

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"You were screaming, Jen," he said skeptically.

"Ah," she breathed, trying to smile and wave it off. "It happens," she apologized half-heartedly. "I, ah, woke myself up."

He gave her a funny look.

"_I _woke you up," he said gruffly.

Her brow furrowed.

"You—what?" she asked, taken aback. She shook her head, and he nodded curtly, gesturing his hand next to him to silently tell her to get back in bed. She didn't move though; she swallowed, and reached up to touch her forehead.

"Called your name until you stopped screamin'," he told her. "Then you took off," he pointed vaguely to the bathroom.

She splayed her hand over her face lightly.

"Thank you," she said hoarsely, after letting it sink in a moment.

She felt him looking at her, and when she pushed back her hair and looked up at him, she could see the apprehension and worry in his eyes. She furrowed her brow and parted her lips. His eyes ran over her, as if appraising her. She felt naked and exposed under his gaze and looked down; he cleared his throat.

"Jenny," he said, letting her name hang in the air tensely. "You got sick."

"It wasn't a good dream."

"You were sick at work the other day," he reminded her.

"Only the once," she said, shrugging tiredly. She put a hand on her hip.

"In the morning," he said dryly.

She shrugged, annoyance flashing through her at the reminders of her weak stomach—until it hit her in a horrifying rush what was bothering him and she thought she was going to be sick again at the very thought. She looked up at him and he looked as pale as she was; there was some unexpected stark uncertainty in his eyes she'd never seen before.

"Are you okay?" he asked, and it was the most loaded question she'd ever been asked.

"I—Jethro, I," she stammered, trying to convey to him some sort of relief while she still stumbled through her own panic at the mere thought of being—"I was sick at work after that cold, I'd been swallowing snot all night!" she explained bluntly, her voice shaking.

He looked at her, unconvinced, and she shook her head violently.

"I'm not, Jethro," she said with brazen confidence. "I'm _not_."

She struggled to get the words out without saying it out loud. She knew he was trying asking her if she was pregnant—and she _knew_ she wasn't. Even if they didn't always use a condom, she was meticulous about taking her pill—and there was no plausible timeline for it; she knew she _wasn't_ pregnant primarily because she absolutely would know if she _was_.

Jenny sat down heavily on the bed, nearly collapsing into a ball. She was still shaky on her feet and she still felt like crying—she felt like breaking down, like she almost had in the elevator a week ago. She felt very young, very female, and very clingy at this pivotal moment in time, and she was battling the urge to ask him to promise her he wasn't going to leave her like he had Diane.

She didn't even want to talk about _that_ happening. She'd had that vague, subconscious scare months ago, when her period had been a few too many days late.

She pulled sheets towards her, straightening them out, desperate for something to do with her hands. She tucked knotted hair behind her ears and cleared her throat, wrinkling her nose, blinking, doing as many inane things as she could to stay composed.

"Who's Jasper?" Gibbs asked, his voice gravelly.

"He's my father," she answered, and then her heart almost stopped, because she hadn't meant to answer him at all—it had just spilled out of its own accord. She suddenly felt trapped.

"He hurt you?" Gibbs prodded.

She furrowed her brow, almost thinking to herself—in her own world. She shook her head a little, and Gibbs shifted, tugging the sheets away from her hands. She looked over at him sharply, and he raised a brow at her a little too invasively.

"Jen?" he asked. "Was he abusive?"

His question stunned her, and she reacted without thinking—she leapt off the bed to her feet, her eyes flashing.

"_No_, he didn't _abuse_ me!" she cried, antagonized by the mere suggestion—it was bad enough the whole federal government thought he was a traitor! "He—my father was a good man, he was my hero!" she couldn't help but raise her voice.

"Calm down," Jethro barked at her, holding up a hand. "You _screamed_, Jen," he reminded her. "You screamed _stop_, you were pretty damn upset," he snapped.

"You can't just make assumptions!" said Jenny hoarsely, tears springing to her eyes.

Gibbs rubbed his jaw tensely, and then he stood up, accidentally yanking the comforter off the bed. The time flashed ominously at them from the digital clock and he glared at her harshly, looking eerie in the dim lamplight.

"What the hell is it about your father?" he demanded.

She thought she might shatter from the pressure she'd been feeling lately; of all the things he could throw at her or they could fight about, she couldn't take this. She couldn't let him see that part of her, because her obsession with the Colonel's death had already resulted in the loss of her old life.

"It's none of your business," she said nastily.

"It is if it makes you sick!" he fired back, and though it was the closest to _caring_ and _sweet_ Jethro was ever going to get, it didn't make her feel any better.

She couldn't think straight.

"Something bad happened," she burst out, choking on the words. "And then he was gone…he was…I can't talk about this," she gasped, unprepared to go there; furious that for some reason her mind was letting these words even halfway escape her lips.

"Can't or won't?" Gibbs growled.

"I don't want to!" she retorted intensely. She flung her hand out. "Since when do you want to _talk_, Jethro—we don't _talk_!" she was going to stop there, but she couldn't; she pushed her hair back if just to hide her face for a _moment, _and then hissed: "You could have talked to me last week—you _needed_ to talk to me and instead you _fucked_ me like I was some-some _hooker_!"

He looked at her, his face unreadable, some of the aggression gone from his eyes, and she pressed her lips together, her eyes stinging with tears again when she thought of how _used_ she'd felt in the elevator.

He tore his glare away from her and reached over to the bed, snatching the pillows he'd been using. A chaotic sense of panic gripped her and she parted her lips, her anger cooling a little.

"Where are you going? You can't take a pillow, we don't have that kind of relationship—I'm not kicking you out of _our_ bed; this is _my_ bed! _My_ pillows!"

He looked at her in confusion and disbelief, and threw the pillows down, and turned on his heel, hell-bent on storming out; she moved, too, jumping to the side, almost as if she'd physically block his way.

"What are you doing?" she asked hoarsely. "Don't. _Don't_ go sleep in the goddamn study."

"Why not, Jen? You don't want me in _your_ bed," he fired back acidly.

"Because—because! I just," she stopped, and swallowed hard, but when it hurt like hell to do it, she knew she was fighting a losing battle with her tears this time. "I just had a really _bad_ nightmare, Jethro, and I need—I need—" her voice shook. "I need you to _stay_. And I need you to not ask me to talk about it," she took a deep breath, "like I don't ask you to talk about your thing."

He understood that she was talking about Shannon—and he had to be fair to her; she was right. She had never asked him to tell her about it; she had never poked, prodded, or dug into his life. She had pushed him a little when he had chosen to be so uncharacteristically open when they discussed suicide—but she was right; she didn't ask him to talk. He should respect her right to be as untouchable as he was.

He stood looking at her for what seemed like a lifetime, waiting for her to _move_ and give him some indication of what else she needed from him. She walked over to his side of the room and picked up the comforter, half-heartedly throwing it back onto the bed. She stared at it, as if she might try to straighten it, and then she heavily sat down.

Gibbs rubbed his jaw and walked over. He touched her cheek and sat down next to her.

She turned towards him, throwing her body into him and hoping he'd catch her. She buried her face in his chest and relaxed when he put his arm around her and rested his lips in her hair. He was warm; his muscle was comforting, and he smelled soothing. She shifted, and then she was straddling his lap—but it was innocent; she just let him hold her in a tight hug, and she rested her hands on his biceps and her mouth against his neck.

She managed to not cry, though her breathing was short as if she was and her lashes and cheeks were a little wet—and she bit her lip to keep those words from overwhelming her.

* * *

His lawyer advised him not to speak to his wife one on one without legal counsel present as a precautionary measure, but Gibbs was never one for following lawyers' orders and he abhorred the idea of using outside parties as a medium to fight it out with Diane. He knew where to find her on a Sunday afternoon and he wasn't going to schedule a damn meeting with Emma Pierce to take advantage of that.

He'd gotten a call at work Thursday detailing exactly what Diane was demanding in divorce proceedings and all pretenses of civility had gone out the window—it didn't help that the Halston case was going cold fast and he was barely keeping it together under the grief of all the memories the case dredged up; in light of that, he wasn't going to agree to let her have his house.

He planned on getting that through her thick head _immediately_.

He parked in the Country Club's visitor lot and checked with the golf pro at the shop to see where she was: practicing on the range before an afternoon tee-time. He headed for the driving range; she wouldn't have her pager on her, so he'd have to confront her there.

She was easy to spot in the liner of golfers; she was the only redhead on the range, and she was the only woman wearing white after Labor Day. Her solid coloured, pastel sweater stood out among all of the stuffy, crisp argyles and boring earth colours. Gibbs took the path down to the well-kept green turf and to her station, his hands in his pockets.

He slowed to a stop behind her, fixing a glare on her poised shoulders as she lined up a drive; her cool demeanor didn't fool him, he knew she'd seen him when he walked down the steps.

"Diane," he said gruffly.

She shifted a little, tilting her head as if she'd heard an irritating noise.

"You know better than to make noise on a golf course," she said smoothly, all but ignoring him.

She bent her knees slightly and flexed her shoulders, bringing back the club to swing.

He ducked, and grabbed it, stopping her mid-swing. She whirled on him, her eyes flashing violently when she met his glare over the metal rod of the club.

"Have you _completely_ lost your mind?" she hissed, yanking the club out of his hands and resting it on the ground. She leaned on it, ignoring that her golf ball tumbled off of its tee and rolled a bit away.

"We need to talk," Gibbs growled.

"Do we?" she asked, feigning surprise as her brows went up in sarcasm. "Well, I never thought I'd see the day Leroy Jethro Gibbs wanted to _talk_," she mocked. She held her hand out and than planted it aggressively on her hip. "By all means, _skip_ the pleasantries," she snapped.

"What pleasantries?" he bit back, unintentionally taking the bait.

"Oh, the usual—'_how are you, Diane? How's work_?'," she paused, a mildly confused look flitting across her features. "_Damn_, Leroy, I've confused you with someone who actually cared how I was doing."

She pursed her lips and clicked her tongue.

"Ah, well, don't fret, I haven't forgotten my manners," she said icily, her eyes narrowing at him. "How have you been, honey?" she asked, cutting her lashes at him in calculated sweetness. "How's that _dear_ tramp—no, ah, _slut_," Diane paused, pursing her lips. "I have trouble pronouncing it—" she snapped, as if enlightened "Probie. How's that dear _Probie_ of yours?"

"Diane, I don't have time for this," Gibbs growled, fixing a stony look on her.

She wasn't holding back with the vitriol, it seemed. He didn't barge into her country club with the intent of ruining her morning, and he didn't want to stand her and listen to her bash Jenny for an hour. She had girlfriends she could do that with.

His wife's eyebrow's shot up and she gave him a harsh look.

"Then you should have called my lawyer," she said bluntly, and twirled her club around, turning on her heel.

She retrieved her golf ball and turned it in her hand, lining up a shot. She resumed her golfing pose and turned her head a fraction towards him.

"Watch out," she warned half-heartedly, and he took just enough of a step back so that when she swung that thing, it missed him. The ball flew off impressively towards the targets, and he heard a thud as it connected.

Another golfer on the range whistled at Diane, impressed, and Gibbs' head snapped in that direction. He narrowed his eyes, finding the culprit to be a young caddy—probably fresh out of high school.

Diane swung her club over her shoulder, eyes following her shot, and Gibbs pushed the head away from his jaw.

"Careful with that," he barked.

She gripped it, one gloved hand sliding over the cushioned black club, and she turned to him again; he was wary of her holding the driver over her shoulder like that, as if she were threatening him. She cocked her head, her eyes cold and unforgiving.

"You once said I'd never catch you dead here, Leroy," she said.

"You want to kill me, Diane?" he asked shortly, holding his arms out. "Be my guest."

"What the hell do you want?" she spat instead.

She was completely unprepared for a confrontation with him, and it made her feel like an animal backed into a corner—she needed preparation to deal with Leroy; she needed plans and the right mindset. She did not need him trespassing into her weekly morning golf routine to throw her off; she didn't need him to ambush her.

"You can't have the house," he said curtly, shoving his hands back into his pockets and forgoing the pleasantries again.

She gave him a hard look, letting him squirm for a minute, and then she lowered her club and passed it to him.

"Hand me the seven iron," she said primly.

Though he didn't know why, he complied, picking out the slimmer, lighter club from her bag and handing it over. She examined the head, eyeing it with knowledge and precision, and then practiced her grip on it, stepping back and swinging lightly.

"Diane," he prompted tensely.

"Oh, I heard you," she said, nonchalant, and then pointed at her bag. "Throw me a couple of balls," she ordered.

He pulled two out of her bag, and as he handed them to her and their fingers brushed, he couldn't help but bitterly think of this as some sort of emasculating metaphor, and the way she held the two immaculate white golf balls in her hands and looked him brazenly in the eye reinforced that thought.

Diane dropped the golf balls to the turf firmly, letting them fall and roll towards her tee. She nudged the tee out of the way with her club, and Gibbs shifted, frustrated. He glanced at the other golfers, checking to see if they were drawing attention, and then stepped closer to her.

"You can't take that house, Diane," he repeated, his voice low. He breathed in her perfume and touched her elbow, pressing his fingers into her arm. "I won't fight you on the other bullshit. Don't know why you want my grandfather's watch," he growled, "but you can take the damn thing. You don't get my house."

"You'll fight for a watch, you'll fight for a house," she hissed back, turning her face up to his, "you won't fight for me. _That's_ why." She flicked her eyes down to his arm, setting her jaw tightly. "Get your hands off me, Leroy."

He let go of her arm, but he didn't back up, and she shot him a dangerous look, stepping slightly away and adjusting her footing, lining up a shot again. Frustrated with her, he moved his foot, kicking her club off it's set up.

"This is a driving range," he pointed out obnoxiously. "You've got a chipper."

"My seven iron swing needs practice," she retorted through gritted teeth. "Back _off_, Leroy," she said sharply, straightening a little and giving him a cruel look. "I'm not going to."

He reached up and rubbed his jaw, fighting down the urge to start shouting at her—she knew how much that house meant to him, she knew every room and every corner was touched with the family he'd lost; that house meant _nothing_ to her—

"It means nothing to you!" he said out loud, raising his voice.

She clicked her tongue.

"People are starting to stare," she warned lightly, and puckered her lips in a patronizing way. "There's no use in throwing a fit. You have the option of shacking up with Scarlett O'Hara and I have nowhere to go. It's rather like a Civil _War_, Leroy, and you're Atlanta."

"What?"

"_After_ Sherman burned it to the ground."

"Diane!" he barked, pushed to the brink. "You don't give a damn about that house—you can't do this, Annie, my daughter took her first _steps_ in that house!"

There was a split second, in which he didn't know what he was saying, and saying those things out loud hurt him as much as it startled her—but in the same split second she was biting her lip in shock, she dug her claws into her resolve and turned on him, her club swinging into his shins.

"Yes," she snapped back viciously. "How _does_ it feel, Leroy? To have something you love _ripped_ away from you because someone else _thinks_ they have a right to it?"

"This isn't about Jenny," he snarled recklessly.

"This is _entirely_ about _that_ _woman_!" Diane shouted, carelessly raising her voice. Her eyes blazed and she flung out her hand, shoving him backwards. "You _slept_ with her. You _cheated_ on me!"

She was the one breaking golf course etiquette now, and the other club members were staring—and suddenly, she was the star of every bad soap opera she'd ever watched, because she was standing here in designer clothing at a Country Club, shrieking at her philandering husband.

Diane swallowed hard, refusing to look around and acknowledge the looks they were getting. She composed herself, lowering her voice a little, and looked with disgust down at his feet, as if just realizing he'd kicked her precious golf club.

"You're embarrassing me," she hissed icily.

"This isn't you, Diane," he growled, his voice as low as hers. "Don't do this."

"If you want to discuss this further, contact Emma," Diane spoke over him, ignoring his plea, and she swiftly turned back to setting up a practice shot, the head of her club resting against the stark white golf ball.

"Kelly grew up there," Gibbs said aggressively, forcing the words to sound as calm as he possibly could.

She winced, but she didn't look at him—he knew he could wear her down if he could just say the right thing, find that part of her that loved him and had a weakness for him—and he hated that he was thinking this way; it was cruel but he was desperate.

"Get away from me, Leroy," she said bluntly. "You're in the way of my swing."

He grit his teeth and narrowed his eyes, glaring at her bent head, the elegant curve of her neck, _hating_ her in that moment more than he ever thought he could—and no matter what she thought, he had never hated Diane—and he searched for the worst thing he could say to make that house repulsive to her, found it, and threw it at her poisonously:

"You know I screwed Jen in the basement and you _still_ want that house?"

She looked at him, and he wanted to take it back as soon as he saw the misery in her eyes—her features tightened and the look of devastation was hidden behind a mask of fury in seconds, and then in a pointed, hollow voice she snapped—"_fore!_"—and swung.

He was sure his words had hurt her as badly as she hurt him when the seven iron slammed into his jaw.

* * *

At first, she didn't know what she was looking at when Gibbs appeared in her doorway holding a—_bloody_?!—rag to his face. She opened her mouth in surprise, unsure if she should laugh or remain calm or—what had he been _doing_, where had he _been_? He'd been gone when she woke up and now he was standing in her kitchen looking like he'd run amok of Muhammad Ali.

"What the hell _happened_?" she asked, pushing her chair back and leaping up. She stood still uncertainly for a moment, and then went up to him, reaching for the rag. He waved her away tensely, walking past her to the sink. She turned on her heel, looking after him in disbelief. "Do I even _want_ to see the other guy?" she asked half-heartedly, following him to the sink.

He turned on the water and made a disgruntled noise, muttering something into his hand.

She furrowed her brow.

"What?" she asked dangerously.

"The other guy," he repeated sarcastically, his voice still muffled, "was Diane."

He slowly pulled the rag away from his face, lowering it to the sink, and Jenny's breath caught in her throat when she saw the full damage; his nose was bleeding, his brow had a gash in it, his jaw was already starting to broadcast a nasty bruise.

"Ice," he growled, and she stared at his face a moment longer before going to her freezer and fumbling for something to give him for his face. She chose a bag of frozen vegetables she was probably never going to touch and brought them over to him.

He reached for it, but she held it out of reach.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Went to talk to her about the divorce," Gibbs said gruffly, and straightened, reaching out and snatching the frozen food from her with a glare. "She didn't want to talk."

"Is _she_ okay?" Jenny asked, still in shock.

Gibbs turned on her sharply, holding his hands out, his eyes narrowing.

"You think I'd _hit_ her?" he asked angrily, and then he leaned forward on her sink, his knuckles turning white. He looked dizzy, and his face went pale and she winced, swallowing and trying to forget she'd just expressed _concern_ for the other woman.

"What did she hit you with, Jethro?" Jenny asked, eyeing the injury apprehensively—there was no way Diane had been able to do that damage with her fist, even if she'd been wearing a ring; Jenny had seen the woman, she didn't have the body mass to throw a punch this violent.

Gibbs spit blood into the sink.

"Seven iron," he grunted.

"A…a golf club?" Jenny asked. She put a hand on her hip, her eyes flashing. She grit her teeth, anger coursing through her suddenly. She chewed on the inside of her lip and then stormed over to the table, where she picked up the phone.

She began dialing Ducky's phone number, shaking her head, still fuming.

"Who does that bitch think she is?" she snarled, holding the phone to her ear. She turned and looked at Gibbs' bent head, her eyes falling to the bloodstained rag he was letting dangle from his hand. "You can't just take a swing at someone with a golf club—she could have killed you—hello?"

Gibbs turned around when he heard her voice change.

"Who're you calling?" he demanded, wrapping the frozen vegetables in the rag and holding it to his face. He flinched and swore; she snapped at him to shut up and looked distastefully at the blood still steadily dripping from his lip.

"Ducky?" she said into the receiver. "Can you come over? I need help," she said curtly.

She turned away from Gibbs a little; she didn't like looking at him with that wound on her face, it made her feel sick and scared and protective all at once—and that was a lot to deal with.

"I think Gibbs needs stiches," she said.

"Jesus Christ, Jenny," barked Gibbs in the background. "Leave him out of this!"

She ignored him, though, and when she had Ducky's promise that he'd be over immediately, she hung up and threw the phone on the table, turning on him with aggression that she wished she could direct at his wife.

"You should have arrested her," she spat, her eyes narrowing threateningly. "She has no right to assault you—it isn't _cute_ when men assault women; I don't know _why_ women think it's acceptable to take a swing at a man!"

"I'm not gonna _arrest_ her, Jen," Gibbs growled.

"Why the hell not?" Jenny demanded. "She whacked a federal agent with a goddamn golf club! You arrest her and it'll solve your damn divorce problems! She won't have a leg to stand on in court!"

He looked at her skeptically, and shook his head. He had no interest in putting Diane in the books; he wasn't looking at this as any kind of criminal assault—not to mention he held the vague belief that he deserved this, and if it made Diane feel better, he'd stick it out. He'd had worse than a golf club to the jaw.

"Fine," Jenny said coolly, and a look crossed her eye that he'd never seen before—and while he was trying to place it, she grabbed her badge of the kitchen table. "_I'll_ arrest her."

"I don't think that's a good idea," he snapped sarcastically.

"No?"

"You can't arrest my wife!"

She gripped her badge as if she were trying to decide if she were going to go through with it or not, and then she chucked it back on the table and crossed her arms, compressing her lips into a tight line.

It was then he realized what the look in her eyes was—she was _mad_ at _Diane_. He'd seen Jenny angry before, but he'd never seen her target aggression or jealousy or anger at _Diane_, though he'd seen it from Diane to Jenny hundreds of times. Jenny really had never expressed any animosity towards his wife until now.

She shook her head, staring at some point on the floor.

"She could have killed you," Jenny repeated caustically.

"Ah, hell, Jen," he said, turning back to the sink. He winced again as he pulled the makeshift icepack away from his face and made a face as he swallowed more blood. "She wasn't tryin' to kill me."

"How many blunt force traumas have we seen, Jethro? How many accidental murders? All it takes is too much strength in _just_ the right place," she railed, the tension clear in her voice.

He thought her concern was a little misplaced—a little absurd. He didn't really think Diane could have killed him. It had hurt like hell, yeah, but his _life_ wasn't in any danger.

He rolled his eyes.

"She said it was an accident," he muttered.

Jenny laughed derisively.

"You're _not_ that stupid, Jethro," she fired back.

He muttered to himself, holding his eyes shut and his head back. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and while he was trying to figure out a way to hurry up and stop the bleeding, Jenny came up beside him and took the frozen vegetables. She held them up to his face, resting her hand on his neck gently. She frowned, a sympathetic look creeping into her eyes.

"Why didn't you let your lawyer handle it?" she asked edgily. "Burley and Deck will never let you hear the end of this. What was so damn important that you confronted her when she was _armed_?"

Gibbs touched her wrist, stroking her skin gently and relaxing. His shoulders slumped and he leaned forward; his head was starting to throb and spin if he moved too suddenly.

"She can't have the house, Jen," he said gruffly.

Jenny frowned, licking her lips slowly. She sighed and swallowed, shaking her head slightly as she tended to his nose. She glanced down uncomfortably at the blood staining his shirt and looked away sharply.

"You must have really set her off," she muttered. "What did you _say_, Jethro?"

He snorted callously and lifted a shoulder, giving her a sarcastic look.

"Told her I had sex with you in the basement."

Jenny's eyes widened and she stiffened a little, nearly shuddering at the very idea of him saying such a thing—guilt washed over her, and she thought about how horrible she'd felt just finding out that he'd slept with his Diane when he was supposed to be only sleeping with _her_.

She lifted her brows and tilted her head primly, compressing her lips.

"Well," she said dryly, changing her tune a bit. "If I were her, I'd have hit you with a golf club, too."

* * *

"The swelling will not be going down by tomorrow," Ducky announced mildly, taking a sip of the tea Jenny had provided for him. "However, count yourself lucky that you don't need stitches, Jethro."

Jenny looked away from the medical examiner with a sour look; she was still a little more than edgy; she had been since he walked in with the injury an hour ago. She wasn't keen on Ducky being in her house on a weekend and seeing her in this seedy, unflattering light—it couldn't exactly reflect well on her to be calling Ducky to come patch up Jethro after he'd had a physical altercation with his wife.

Ducky was all politeness and cordiality, though, and he easily provided a few key tips on how to tend to Gibbs' jaw, nose, lip, and…eyebrow.

"You really should take a golfer's warning more seriously, Jethro," Ducky warned mildly.

Gibbs shot a one-eyed glare at him through an icepack wrapped in gauze, and Ducky beamed innocently, sipping on his tea happily. Jenny stood up and went into the study without a word. She poured two tumblers of bourbon and returned, sliding one to Gibbs rather haphazardly.

Gibbs looked at her tensely, concerned about her mood, and Ducky eyed her somewhat apprehensively as well. She sat down in the chair next to Gibbs and took a few impressive gulps of the whiskey.

Without thinking, she put her hand on Gibbs' shoulder and rubbed possessively, forgetting for a moment that Ducky was sitting in her kitchen. She made a face, her bottom lip resting in a pout against the edge of her tumbler.

She couldn't get a handle on her feelings; she was annoyed at Jethro for saying something so crude to Diane when he was fighting with her, but she was more annoyed with Diane for taking a seven iron to Jethro's _head_. She didn't take kindly to people injuring men she loved.

Gibbs tapped his fingers on the tumbler thoughtfully, leaving it on the table—maybe he'd drink it later.

Jenny turned and looked at Ducky.

"Is he concussed?" she asked.

"Doubtful," Ducky answered, waving his hand. "Jethro, are you tired?"

"No," Gibbs answered curtly, pointing at his head. "Hell of a headache, though," he quipped.

Ducky smiled good-naturedly, a little uncomfortable himself.

"You should be grateful she wasn't using the driver," he said. "_That_ would do some damage, indeed."

Gibbs snorted; Jenny looked away angrily, still rubbing his arm gently.

"It must have been a remarkable swing," Ducky teased lightly.

Gibbs shrugged and went for the bourbon, picking up the glass.

"Eh, she followed it through, Duck," he said.

Ducky raised his brows.

"You must be kidding?" he asked in disbelief.

Gibbs shook his head, taking a long drink of whiskey.

"Swung it right through and must've chipped the damn thing twenty feet."

Ducky laughed, surprised.

"Diane always has been quite the unstoppable woman," he remarked.

"This isn't funny," Jenny snapped curtly, pushing her glass away roughly and snapping her eyes onto Ducky's. Her voice was brittle and her expression guarded. She looked like she might say something else, but instead she stood up, her hand sliding pointedly off Gibbs.

She took her glass and left the room—she couldn't stand to hear Ducky speak fondly of Diane, and she couldn't stand to her Gibbs talk about her at all; it made her jealous, it made her anxious and insecure and she felt very, _very_ insecure at this moment because this affair had so quickly gone from shallow to deep and she thought she was the only one barely treading water.

Gibbs watched her go, eyes following her intensely, and he sighed, taking the icepack away from his face. He leaned forward on his knees and winced, lifting his brows and looking up at his old friend.

"Think you better go, Duck," he said gruffly.

Ducky looked after Jenny with a frown on his face and nodded, finishing up his tea.

"Yes," he said, standing. "Yes, I quite agree."

Gibbs stood, intent on seeing him out, and then thought about how odd it seemed for him to be seeing Ducky out of Jenny's house. He reached up and rubbed his jaw lightly running his hand over the jagged cut on his lip.

"Is she alright?" Ducky asked quietly.

Gibbs shrugged, and nodded.

"She's fine," he answered tensely. "She's stressed," he said, and gave Ducky a wry look. "She wants to arrest Diane."

"Oh dear," Ducky sighed. He raised a brow and shook his head. "No good will come of that."

Gibbs shook his head and walked towards the front door. Jenny was sitting on her stairs in the hall, holding her empty tumbler on her knees. She watched Ducky and Gibbs come to a stop at her front door, and Ducky tipped his had at her as he placed it on his head.

"Thank you, Doctor Mallard," she said crisply.

Ducky nodded cordially, and pointed at Gibbs.

"Wake him every hour or so, just to be sure, my dear," he said, a twinkle in his eye.

Jenny vaguely smiled back, and watched as Gibbs waved Ducky out the door. She looked back down at her glass, and kept staring into the clear bottom of it even when Gibbs sat down next to her and tiled his head, nudging her knee.

"What's wrong, Jen?" he asked with a sigh, arching a brow.

She put her lips on the edge of the glass, biting it with her teeth.

"You should've stayed away from her," she said jealously.

"I can't," he said bluntly. "It's a divorce. I have to deal with her."

Jenny didn't say anything. She pushed her hair back, letting it fall over her shoulders, and bit on the edge of the glass again—she didn't know how to explain to him that she felt guilty and so down on herself, and she didn't want Diane to hate her and she didn't want Ducky to think badly of her. She wished he hadn't thrown their actions in the basement in his wife's face—it made her look trashy, heartless, and she was neither of those; she was a woman who had met the right man at the wrong time.

She leaned back on her stairs and set her glass down, stretching her arm out. She swallowed the bad taste in her mouth, hardening herself, and when he looked back at her and raised a brow, her stomach dropped when she looked at the ugly bruise on his face again.

She felt possessive of him; selfish, and she wanted to confront Diane and scratch her eyes out—his wife didn't understand him; she didn't know how Jethro worked, and right now, Jenny was arrogant enough to believe she had him figured out.

"I hate her," she said dully, tearing her eyes away from Gibbs lest he see the tears starting to thicken in her lashes. "I _hate_ her," she said again, trying to make herself believe it—trying to make herself feel better.

* * *

Though Stan Burley's morning had begun on a high note—the Boss walking in with the mother of all black eyes would remain the highlight of his NCIS career for some time—that mood hit rock bottom when what had to be their fiftieth tip on Cassandra Abbott came up short and they were back at square one.

He flung his arm at the case board, laser pointer going haywire.

"This is why I hate embezzlement," he barked, his eyes flashing.

"Cool it, Stan," Decker muttered, tired and annoyed himself.

"No," snapped Burley. "People are greedy and horrible and this—this incessant need for more money and more things drives them to do horrible, animalistic things and now we can't even find this bitch and bring her to justice for killing that little girl—" he broke off, taking a break from his bitching, his mouth moving wordlessly.

He threw the laser pointer at the board and Gibbs glared at him mildly—but he didn't stop him. Gibbs was as livid as the rest of them that they hadn't been able to locate the woman yet—they were getting closer and closer to have to declare the case cold.

"She escaped on foot! How can we be back at square one?" demanded Burley, whirling on them. "You're telling me nothing came of that trace we had on her mother's phone?" he demanded, charging at Jenny's desk.

"You think I'd keep it from you if there was anything there?" she asked tensely, and Gibbs slammed his hand on his desk.

"Back off her, Stan," he snapped. "It isn't her fault."

Decker's phone rang and Burley gave Gibbs a mutinous look; Jenny could tell he was on the verge of saying something real _stupid—_but luckily, Decker interrupted; he slammed his phone down, grabbing his bag and jumping out of his chair with a lot of loud, hurried banging around.

"Boss," he said urgently. "Maryland cops got an eye on Abbott."

* * *

It was in a newly constructed, completely empty home in a fledgling neighborhood in Maryland that Cassandra Abbott was hiding out. The LEOs who had identified her had kept their distance, called NCIS, and staked out the house—when Gibbs' team arrived, they knew she was inside.

They shut the car doors quietly, and Gibbs curtly pointed Jenny and Burley around back while he and Decker took the front; she followed his order without complain, going off to the left while Stan took off around the right of the house.

Jenny kept a good grip on her gun and her eye sharp as she rounded the house; the backyard was clear from her side, and she nodded at Burley when he appeared. He returned the nod and jerked his head towards the house. They approached the back door together and found it closed—good; then it was plausible that Abbott was inside the house.

Burley gave her a look, and she stepped back to cover him while he kicked in the door. When he initially cleared his entrance, she followed him and cleared behind the door, moving through the rooms.

"Clear!" she heard Gibbs shout gruffly from the front of the house.

"Clear!" she heard Decker mutter gruffly, coming out of an empty kitchen.

Gibbs rounded the corner, and Burley shot up the stairs; Gibbs pointed after him and Jenny followed suit, covering Burley's back.

"You see her?" Jenny asked loudly.

"Naw," Burley answered, and swore loudly and violently.

Jenny lowered her weapon and turned on her heel, kicking the wall in frustration. She took a leaf out of Burley's book and swore colourfully; he came up behind her rubbing his jaw—and then she heard the gunshot echo through the house, and she heard Decker shout.

"Move!" barked Burley, shoving her towards the stairs.

She took the stairs two at a time, putting her gun back in her hands. She lost her footing on the last few stairs and fell, hitting her ankle hard—Burley stopped and pulled her up helpfully, holding her arm to steady her.

"What the hell—" Burley burst out, and he heard Decker shout from the backyard for backup. More gunshots followed his shout.

The next thing she knew, Stan had flung her towards the back door and jumped in front of her, pointing her roughly.

"Go, Shepard, back him up!" he ordered.

She stumbled against the door from the force of his push and her gun shook in her hands. Her blood ran cold, because she saw what Stan Burley had so obviously been trying to keep her from seeing—she vaguely acknowledge how thoughtful and kind it was of him to try and push her out before she saw Gibbs down on the floor, but she couldn't think straight.

"Jethro," she choked hoarsely, and Decker shouted, farther away this time.

Burley looked at her harshly for a moment, his mouth open to order her again, and then he took off past her, bolting out the door to assist Decker; she heard two quick gunshots from far away, Burley swearing, and then an eerie silence—and she darted across the room, stumbling to her knees next to Gibbs.

She drew her hands over him frantically, trying to find the wound, and he groaned at her when she found it at his ribcage. Blood spilled over her hands and she pressed both palms against the gaping bullet hole. He pulled her beeper from her belt and shoved it at her.

She pulled her bloodstained hand from his ribs and fumbled with it to page an emergency number—she felt like screaming; there was so much of his blood on her hands. The beeper slipped out of her fingers and she went back to trying to stop the bleeding, hunching down closer to him.

He knocked her hand away.

"Hurts, Jen," he barked hoarsely.

"It's a fucking gunshot wound, Jethro!" she screamed at him, and the distress snapped through her voice and spilled out of her eyes—she gasped and lifted her hand to her cheek to wipe the tears, but she only succeeded in getting blood all over her.

Burley barged back in, and she shouted at him for help. He said something about having called an ambulance from the car phone, and he crouched next to her, shoving his jacket at her for the wound.

"Hang in there, Boss," he said tensely.

"Jethro," Jenny demanded shakily. "Jethro, _look at me_," she shouted.

He muttered something gruffly and put his hand over hers, pinning it to his side—and he closed his eyes.

His breathing turned shallow.

She looked up at Stan, panic shooting through her; he met her eyes anxiously and swallowed hard—she collapsed back onto her heels and let out a hoarse sob, because there was no use trying to pretend she was okay.

* * *

References: Gone with the Wind, Dante's Inferno, James Bond (Pussy Galore), Henry the 8th & Anne Boleyn, Mary Kay Cosmetics, The Viet Cong, A Streetcar Named Desire, NCIS Season 5 (Jenny's mysterious illness), NCIS Season 3 Episode "_Hiatus Part 2_" (Gibbs's suicidal thoughts/murder of Hernandez), NCIS Season 3 Episode _"Probie" _(Semantics, again), NCIS Season 6 Episode "_Collateral Damage_" (Rule #13), NCIS Season 1 Episode "Eye Spy" (Gibbs and the Seven Iron).

Also, thanks to everyone whose name/surname I stole.

_You didn't see that coming, did you?  
feedback appreciated!  
-Alexandra_


	17. the Two Redheads

_A/N: This chapter, in it's entirety, speaks for itself. It's long and it is point-blank nothing but angst, so there's your warning. The integral scene here, the scene between Diane & Jenny, is the basis for the entire fic's evolution. The changes in canon that have been made in regards to that scene are the result of careful discussion with my beta, and I like them. It blows my mind that I'm finished with this. _

_"Thou shalt not commit adultery." -The Sixth Commandment, according to the Catholic Bible religious texts. _

_"I saw goodbye in her eyes." -Zac Brown Band; "Goodbye in Her Eyes". [Playlist]_

_"...when the daylight comes I'll have to go  
but tonight I'm gonna hold you so close  
and in the daylight, we'll be on our own  
but tonight I need to hold you so close."  
-Maroon5; "Daylight". [Playlist]_

* * *

_Chapter Sixteen: the Two Redheads_

Flashing lights. There were a lot of flashing _lights_—red, white, blue—and even at the hospital, when the flashing lights of the law enforcement cars and the ambulance had gone, her vision was still plagued by the flashing, ominous, emergency _lights_.

They weren't allowed any further than Bethesda's waiting room; Jenny was unsure what was going on. She and Burley had been in the ambulance with Gibbs when they arrived—Decker had stayed behind to deal with the LEOs and the body of Cassandra Abbott—and Gibbs had been whisked into the gut of the hospital before they could blink.

She was left standing in the waiting room, pale and shocked, with Gibbs' blood on her—while Burley got on the phone with the Director, his hands shaking slightly.

Jenny pushed her hair back over and over again, tucking it behind her ear and worrying it until it was tangled and frizzy—she stood against a wall, one hand pressed against her neck, watching Burley communicate, using all of her self control to remain composed. When Burley got off the phone and snapped it shut, she flinched, and her eyes widened.

He swore and turned to her, scratching the back of his head. She stared at him, her hand still touching her lips, one wrapped around her stomach in self-comfort.

"Deck's on his way over," Burley muttered. "Ducky just retrieved the body." The other agent stepped closer, still touching the back of his head hesitantly. He looked at the doors and then at the triage station—and then at her, an uncertain glimmer in his eyes. "Uh, Jenny, he's been shot before. Gibbs. He has a purple heart," he said uncomfortably.

Jenny parted her lips, lowering her hand a little. She curled it under her chin.

"Looked bad, Stan," she said in a small voice. "He said it hurt."

Burley winced. He knew as well as she did that it must have been bad if Gibbs had been complaining of pain or discomfort. Still, he wanted to be as helpful as possible, and he was hoping for some reciprocation from Shepard—firefights weren't fun, and having an agent hit in one was something one never got used to. Burley didn't like it any more than she did.

"He had an exit wound," Burley tried half-heartedly. He pointed to his back, just near his rib cage. "Here," he indicated. "Exit wounds are good and, uh…He's gonna be okay, okay?"

"Stan," she said, her lips trembling. "I think—I think his blood is—it's all over me," she said, holding out her hands and looking down.

She had meant to say—_too much of his blood is on me. It can't be good, because look at how much he bled on me!_ But she couldn't seem to say what she wanted to say because she was scared—she was _terrified_. Her distress seemed to be magnified; she was worried as an Agent and because-because she loved the man, and seeing him pale and bleeding and breathing shallowly in the back of an ambulance had done something to her that she couldn't ever undo.

"Ah, Jenny," Stan said sympathetically.

He reached out and awkwardly touched her shoulder, patting lightly. She titled her head back, took a deep breath, and then lunged forward, wrapping Burley in a hug that she thought he needed as much as she did. She must have thought right—because he hugged her back tightly, resting his chin on her shoulder. She clung to his dirty jacket, burying her face in his collar and starting to cry.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, stumbling over the words. "I—I hesitated, I should have backed Decker up when you—"

"Shut-up, Jenny, it's fine," he said earnestly. "Decker had her down when I got there. It's fine."

"I screwed up."

"You've never been in a situation like that," Burley tried to say.

He wasn't _mad_ that Shepard had frozen up when he told her to go back up Decker; he might have done the same thing if he hadn't seen Gibbs down and known immediately that he had to act because she wouldn't be able to. He was shaken. They had cleared the house—so where had Abbott been, how had she been able to crack off a shot at Gibbs?

Jenny shook her head and said something about the hostage situation when she'd first killed someone, but he didn't understand her words—she was slurring them and choking on them, trying to pretend she wasn't crying. She didn't seem to realize Burley didn't care if she was crying—and when Decker got here, he probably wouldn't give a damn either because gunshot wounds were _bad_.

They were on the list of things it was okay for anyone to cry over.

"I'm sorry I'm crying," Shepard snapped, sounding angry with herself.

Burley laughed awkwardly.

"It's, uh, it's okay, Jenny," he said, and then tilted his head up, jumping forward a little. He stumbled, forgetting he was practically holding her up, but recovered and waved curtly across the hospital. "Deck," he said in a tight voice, catching the other agent's attention.

Decker came over, his hands fisted tightly in his pockets. He shot a dejected look at Shepard—who looked up when she heard his name—and cleared his throat, glancing at the emergency room doors.

"Word on Gibbs?" he asked.

Jenny put her face back in Stan's chest. Burley shook his head.

"Nah, they took him back half an hour ago," he said. "Morrow's got a couple Agents picking up our slack on Abbott while we're here."

"We've got to get back," Decker said reluctantly. "They taking Gibbs to surgery?"

"We don't know," Burley said dully. "He was unconscious when we got here."

Decker's eyes fell to the blood staining Jenny's clothing and he looked away, setting his jaw tightly. He knew leadership fell to him in Gibbs' absence, but he wasn't sure what the etiquette or protocol was; should they wait here for news, or should they do their duty and go about closing the case while there _was_ nothing to do but wait? He swallowed hard and reached up to rub his jaw.

"Diane is on her way," he said gruffly.

Burley glared at him, his brow slanting and his eyes going wide. He pointed silently to the top of Jenny's head and made a face.

"You called his wife?" he demanded.

"Of course I called his goddamn wife!" Decker answered, taken aback that Burley was upset.

"Jesus, Will, as if gettin' shot isn't enough for him!" Burley burst out, shaking his head. "He's got to wake up to the bitch who hit him with a golf club? She's divorcing him, why the hell'd you call her?"

"She's his _wife_," Decker snapped coolly.

"What about her?" Burley asked, nodding at Jenny.

She stepped away from him and turned her back, bringing up her hands to hide her face. Swallowing his personal and professional friendship with Jenny, Decker steeled himself, giving Burley a hard look.

"What _about_ her?" he demanded bluntly. "She can't make Gibbs' medical decisions! Diane's his wife, she's his proxy, she has a right to know her husband has been shot," Decker went on brutally. "Yeah, I called her. We can stay until she gets here."

Jenny tilted her head up, processing everything Decker had said. She bit the inside of her cheek and swallowed, clearing her nose, brushing her hair back—it made her sick to think Diane was on her way to Bethesda; it made her dizzy and guilty and lightheaded but, of all the things it made her feel, it did not persuade her to leave this hospital until she knew Jethro was alright.

She turned around.

"I'm not leaving," she said firmly, spectacularly hiding the shake in her voice even if she couldn't hide her running mascara and smeared lipstick.

"Dammit, Jenny," Decker swore.

She swallowed hard again.

"He's our team leader," she said curtly. "I am not leaving. He is not waking up without an NCIS agent here," she went on seriously.

"It shouldn't be you," Decker snapped. "You think Diane Gibbs will just put up with you hanging around this waiting room?"

"I'll stay away from her," Jenny said. "I'll make myself scarce," she promised, and then closed her eyes, and bit her lip, gathering the resolve to be a little too open with the state of her and Jethro's personal affairs. "He's been living with me, Will. She may be his—his _proxy_," Jenny spat the word, "but _I_ need to be here."

Decker looked torn. Burley shifted his weight and tilted his head, pushing his hair back.

"I'm stayin' with her," he muttered. "I'll keep you posted, Decker, relay you information," he said.

Decker looked at the two agents in front of him. Burley offering to stay with Shepard,-essentially offering to mediate a cat fight if one ensued—spoke volumes for how much their relationship had evolved since she had started. It had gone from one of petty competition—fighting in the streets for the FBI—to a genuine friendship; a bond of partnership. It was something Decker wanted to encourage, and on top of that, Shepard's willingness to put herself in an unsavory situation with Diane for the benefit of a teammate was heartening. It made him eager to work with her in California—although, this relationship between her and Gibbs might end up screwing all that over.

Decker made a decision; he nodded. Jenny looked away, reaching up to rub her eyes again, and he came forward—and he hugged her, taking as much strength from the hug as she was giving.

"He's been shot before," he said gruffly. "He's got a purple heart."

Jenny wrenched backwards and looked between Decker and Burley, and gave a laugh of stark disbelief—why did the two of them think saying that was comforting? It seemed to her that with each bullet in the body, chances of survival _decreased_. Decker gave her a confused look and Burley just smirked in exasperation; had they really said the same thing to try and buck Shepard up?

_Men_.

"Agent Decker?"

The whooshing of automatic doors, the clicking of heels—the curt, controlled, but still slightly panicked tone of Diane's voice shattered the tranquility of their team moment, and Decker turned on his heel, clearing his throat.

Jenny turned to the side, tears springing painfully to her eyes and sticking in her throat—and she felt sick again. She pressed her knuckles to her lips and Burley took her arm, leading her in the opposite direction.

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs," Diane was speaking to a nurse in sharp, demanding tones. "I'm his wife—no, ma'am, I'd like to speak with a doctor immediately," she demanded—and it sounded like she was getting exactly what she wanted.

Jenny felt a flare of anger—getting what she wanted because of that _goddamn_ wedding ring.

Stopping short, she couldn't help it—Jenny whirled to look at the nurse's station, biting her lip. Burley tugged on her half-heartedly; Jenny just stared at Diane speaking with the nurse and Decker, until the other redhead felt it, and turned her eyes to Jenny's—and the two women looked at each other—for a brief second, and then Diane's eyes fell to the blood all over Jenny and she turned pale, and she didn't seem to care that she was looking at her home's wrecker, she was just as scared as Jenny was in that moment, and Jenny's face fell and she turned to Stan, putting her hands on his shoulders and her face in his chest again.

She and Burley sat down on the cold, sterile waiting room chairs and she bent forward, her wet face in her hands, and she cried, because it hurt that she might be losing Jethro—but it hurt to see the pain in his wife's eyes, and to know that if this ended in death, Diane would have lost him twice.

* * *

It seemed as if she were at the hospital an eternity—trapped in that drab, impersonal waiting room with so many other people waiting for news. She—and Burley—were there long enough to get frustrated and apprehensive; she was there long enough to cry until her throat hurt, and it ached to hold her eyes open, and she finally curled up across two chairs and buried her face into her arms, hiding her eyes from the bad fluorescent lights to assuage a headache, and focusing intently on breathing so she might distract herself from anything else.

Burley paced a lot. He drank cups of stale hospital coffee. He disappeared outside and stormed back in several times. He pestered the nurses a few times—and finally, when it had been hours, he disappeared for a good hour, and when he came back, he was jingling car keys—and Jenny was asleep.

She had fallen into a scary, fitful sort of sleep, and he'd left to sort out some details with Decker—and pick up a car, so they wouldn't have to take the metro home if they ended up getting out of Bethesda too late at night. Upon his return, she was really asleep, and he leaned against the wall with his back half to her, half to the doors to the rest of the emergency room. NCIS wanted updates on Gibbs' condition, and Burley had none; he had heard nothing from Diane since she'd gone to wait in the surgical waiting room—as family members were allowed to do—and he figured he wouldn't hear anything from her.

He was willing to bet she would stick needles in her eyes before tell Jenny Shepard a damn thing about Gibbs.

* * *

Jenny woke up suddenly, startled—by a nightmare, or a noise, something she couldn't place. Her eyes still hurt; her throat still hurt, and her head was still pounding. Her muscles were sore; sleeping on these stupid metal chairs was not conducive to comfort, and she winced as she sat up a little. She unclenched her teeth, tears springing to her eyes at the pain in her jaws—and at the pain in her heart, because she knew where she was.

If she had been allowed to sleep, then she could only assume there was no news, no reason to wake her, and she froze awkwardly, holding herself up on one hand and blinking, pushing her hair back with the other hand and silently chastising herself for _still_ feeling like she needed to cry.

She turned her head to look for Burley, and her heart nearly stopped—he was talking in low voices with Diane by the wall, and when Diane saw Jenny move, she fell silent and looked directly at her, abruptly ending her conversation with Burley.

Diane gave him a curt nod and moved past, her heels clicking ominously as she confidently walked across the waiting room and stood in front of Jenny with an unreadable expression and immoveable eyes.

Even in light of harrowing hours of waiting, Diane still looked chic and put together—and Jenny knew she didn't look as good; she was bloody and tired and her make-up was as askew as her hair. She wasn't in any state to handle a confrontation with Gibbs' wife; yet she knew she had no choice in this matter.

Jenny swallowed and sat up, swinging her feet to the ground, tossing her hair back, blinking—_waking up_. Diane still stood in front of her, looking down on her, and Jenny resisted the urge to stand up and face her, nose to nose, and order her to tell her if Jethro was all right.

She didn't. She said nothing. She did not weaken herself by looking _up_ at Diane, either.

She pushed her hair back.

Diane turned her head sharply and looked back at Burley.

"Do you mind, Stan?" she asked curtly, though there was only superficial politeness in the brutal tone; she wasn't _asking_ him, she was telling him he needed to beat it: _now_.

Burley didn't move. He looked at Jenny, narrowing his eyes pointedly, and crossed his arms, his face unreadable but cool.

"I can't, Mrs. Gibbs," he said politely. "I have to back her up."

Diane lowered her lashes in a dangerous way.

"I do not have a gun, Agent Burley," she said coldly.

Jenny turned her head and met Burley's eyes, silently thanking him for his support. He still hesitated, making it clear he was not going to leave the area until he had explicit permission from Jenny herself. Jenny swallowed hard and grit her teeth together, her jaw stiffening with resolve. If Diane wanted to talk, Jenny supposed she had that right—and though she may feel sick, and guilty, and wrong, and ashamed, the one thing she did not feel was fear; Jenny Shepard was not afraid of Diane Gibbs, and whatever was about to go down was not something she wished Burley to witness.

She nodded her head curtly, and then tilted it, indicating he should go. He gave her a nod back, shooting the women a wary look, and left—left the waiting room straight out the hospital front doors.

He was gone, but there were still people in the waiting room—they were few and far between and they were spread out and distracted, but they were strangers, and they were there, and the idea of them horrified Jenny. Her head throbbed as if to reprimand her for clenching her teeth so tightly, but she didn't let up.

Diane still stood in front of her. She stared down at this woman—this colleague of Leroy's, and slowly, she sat down on the metal chairs directly across from her. She folded her purse and her jacket in her lap and focused directly on Jenny's forehead, so when the other woman looked up, she'd have no choice but to meet her eyes.

Jenny pierced the inside of her lip with her teeth and bit back the urge to ask after Jethro.

She was bowing her head, but she wasn't looking at Diane either—her eyes were on some inconsequential place right past Diane's left hand, and she was thinking she ought to get her shit together and meet this woman's eyes before—

"Look at me," Diane ordered bluntly.

And she had the upper hand.

Cowardly as it made her look to be told to look Diane in the eye, Jenny wasn't about to look like more of a coward by refusing to look at all, and so she lifted her head and met Diane's eyes. Diane gave a small, curt smile, full of hollow coldness. It was a minor triumph to see this woman so humbled before her—the last time she had looked this other redhead in the eyes, she'd been intimidated, conscious of how beautiful Jenny was, jealous of the way Leroy's eyes followed her, and wary of the confidence she exuded. It was different now. The dynamic…was so different.

Diane flicked her eyes over Shepard's wrinkled clothing, tangled hair, and bloodshot, mascara-smeared eyes. Her gaze lingered a little on the dark, muddy bloodstains besmirching Shepard's clothing, and when she finally looked back up into the woman's green eyes, it wasn't as satisfying as she'd hoped it would be.

What Diane had hoped to see was fear and guilt and _pitiful_ remorse—and what she saw was pain. Pain, and worry, and heartache, and Diane saw it because she _knew_ it. The pain in Jenny's eyes almost made Diane hate her all the more, but for the fact that she suddenly had no energy to hate.

She looked icily into Jenny's wet green eyes for a long time, and then she narrowed her eyes.

"Go home," she said carefully, making sure her words were clipped and clear. "I don't want you here. It isn't your place to be here," she paused, and shook her head slightly. "You have no right to be here."

Jenny stared back at her. She said nothing, at first—she listened. She was surprised, because she had been expecting to be called a name; she didn't express her surprise. She was too tired. Her heart slammed against her chest and she bristled instinctively, irrational panic rising in her at the though of not being here when he woke up and she swallowed.

"He's my partner," she lashed out sharply; defensively.

"No," Diane retorted instantly, her eyes flashing. "He is _my_ partner. He is _your_ boss," she said, quiet anger seething in her tone. "I do not object to an NCIS agent present. I object to _you_. You crossed a line that gives me the right to kick you out. I am exercising that right, Agent Shepard," she was almost deadly calm in her explanation, and then she repeated: "Go home."

Jenny had no argument—no leg to stand on. She sat, chastised, staring at Diane with stress laying siege to her body. She felt ambushed and shaky; humiliated and weak, and what was worse was that she understood that Diane did have every right to make her feel this way—and in addition to that, she knew that Diane was holding back; Diane was being as neutral as possible.

In a situation where she could be screaming obscenities and pulling hair, Diane was coolly telling Jenny to leave—and Jenny was going to respect that.

She turned her head, and she lifted her hand and wiped at her eyes, holding her hand to her lips for a moment. She took a deep breath, and stood up abruptly; Diane stood just as swiftly, refusing to let Jenny have high ground even for a moment—and Diane was taller than she was.

She hadn't said much up to this point—neither of them had; she couldn't bring herself to leave the hospital without knowing something, and she swallowed her pride.

"Diane," she said hoarsely, and though it horrified her that her voice shook so, she couldn't help it, and there was more shame in trying to hide it. "Tell me Jethro is okay."

She knew the moment she called him Jethro that she had made a mistake; she had thrown her familiarity with Gibbs—the difference in their relationship, signified by the simple usage of _Jethro_ rather than _Leroy_—into Diane's face, and the steel that settled into Diane's eyes let her know it.

Diane glared at her coldly, the glint in her eye almost aloof it was so frozen.

"It's none of your damn business," she retorted frigidly, and the line of her lips tightened poisonously when she saw Jenny flick her eyes away and blink rapidly, as if she had some right to cry over this. Before she could account for the cruelty of it, Diane's next words tumbled out of her mouth acidly: "It appeals to me to watch you suffer."

Jenny looked stricken, but with the statement—like a slap to the face—she looked more composed than she had since she had woken up.

"His team has a right to know," Jenny said bitterly, her voice taking on a professional edge.

Diane nodded curtly, and smirked sardonically.

"I'll give William Decker a call," she said pointedly, and then narrowed her eyes and raised her chin. "Go _home_, Agent Shepard."

Jenny stared fiercely back at Diane, debating for a split, unthinkable second whether or not she should stand her ground—but this wasn't her ground to stand, was it? This was never her territory; Jethro was _never_ her territory.

She bit her lip harshly and compressed her lips, setting her jaw again—and she turned her back on the other redhead. A flash of movement out of the corner of her eye told her Diane had collapsed heavily into a chair; the confrontation had taken as much of a toll on her as it had on Jenny.

Jenny picked up her pace as she left the hospital, and veritably stumbled out onto the sidewalk out front, looking blindly around for Stan—she spotted him leaning against the wall, scuffing his foot impatiently and tensely, and she walked over to him. He looked up at her and raised his eyebrows. She just shook her head, opened her mouth to say something, and choked on her words instead; he reached out and touched her shoulder, and she leaned in to hug him. Her eyes were dry and starved for tears, but she closed them and clung to Burley all the same.

It had taken its toll on both her and Diane, and though she was the one in the wrong, she was the one participating in the breaking of sacred vows—she was jealous and she was angry, because Diane was allowed to be in that hospital; she was allowed to grieve and cry and make demands and be read in.

And Jenny—Jenny had no right.

* * *

Diane made a face as she swallowed the dregs of her cold coffee, pinching her nose up and trying her best not to let the liquid spend too much time on her tongue. Cold coffee was bad, and the last mouthful of cold coffee was undeniably the worst. She pushed the cheap Styrofoam cup onto a scuffed and well-used table in the recovery room, abandoning it without regret.

She was tired—she was _exhausted_. She was drained, emotionally and physically, and she'd needed the coffee to perk her up, but it hadn't. It was just bad hospital coffee that only coated with bitterness the bad taste that was always in her mouth these days; it left her aching for something stronger and it seemed to _mock_ her.

She had drank the coffee slowly, and still, even with her probing, dry red eyes on him, Leroy had remained unconscious—his chest rising and falling with a rhythmic tranquility, his face lined and a little pale, but altogether more sanguine than she'd perhaps ever seen it.

There was, it seemed, peace in morphine.

Peace for Leroy, at least—and for the moment, she was glad of that.

Diane took the small, thumb-sized remote from the side of his bed and held it lightly in her hands, smoothing the pads of her fingers over it to occupy herself. She focused on the damn thing until her vision nearly blurred, from fatigue or sadness, she didn't know, and she molded her thumb to the button, hovering over it without pressing.

The doctors had said he'd hurt like hell when he woke up; they hadn't given him any more morphine since the end of his surgery, because they had wanted him to wake up in pain—there was some medical reason to it, but she didn't remember it. She hadn't argued; somewhere in her mind she didn't care if he woke up feeling like he was being torn to shreds by wild dogs.

Unfortunately, there was always that part of her that did care when Leroy was hurt. She may be at odds with that part of her—may vehemently hate it—but she couldn't ignore its existence, and sitting here, alone, with him and his bullet wound, she had time to think about it.

She leaned forward on her knees, holding the morphine remote in her hands as if it were fragile, a precious object, or something made of glass. Her thumb still fit perfectly over the button. A small, hollow smirk touched her lips, and she abstractly mused that if this were television—if this were some dramatic, daytime soap, she would dose him with morphine until it was all too much; she would take revenge on her philandering husband and kill him with kindness, claiming that she had accidentally overdosed him in an attempt to stay his pain. If this were television, he wouldn't wake up, and it wouldn't matter.

She had no murderous intentions in her head though; only vague, fleeting ruminations; she had no stomach for murder—not even for the death penalty—the thought made her nauseous, no matter how badly he'd broken her heart, and besides, she couldn't hurt Leroy.

She loved him too much to hurt him, much less kill him for his crimes—and that golf club thing, that didn't count. He had been so cruel to say what he had, to throw his affair in her face like that, and in all her time knowing him she had never known Leroy to be truly _cruel_.

Diane looked at him now, dead to the world, the stressed look of a gunshot wound and surgery on his face, and the ghastly bruise she herself had caused with the seven iron—oh, he looked _awful_—and she reached up and covered her mouth, biting her lip to keep from dissolving into sobs.

She didn't want him to wake up to her crying.

She thought of Jenny Shepard; Jenny Shepard crying in the waiting room for hours, until she fell asleep with red eyes and a hoarse voice on the chairs, taunting Diane with her presence, insulting her with those tears and her shaking hands—Jenny Shepard, and the raw pain in those unfathomable green eyes that Leroy _must_ have found so…so _irresistible_.

Diane thought of Jenny, and she hated her, she hated her coldly and unrelentingly, but what frankly startled her was that she sympathized with her—she couldn't comprehend it; she didn't understand how she felt it—and that she pitied her, pitied the _look_ in her bewitching green eyes because _she_, Diane, had seen that damn look in her _mirror_.

She thought, _Jenny Shepard is as doomed as I am._

And then she pushed those thoughts away, and she steeled herself and straightened a little, her nerves shooting through her, her breath catching in her throat—because he was waking up.

* * *

He struggled to consciousness, as most patients under anesthesia did. She watched the sluggish twitching of his muscles, the movement of his face and throat as he blinked and tried to catch his bearings. His eyes opened, and she saw the disconcerted, blurry look in them—a lost look; she knew he hadn't quite comprehended where he was or what had happened, and when he turned his head and looked at her, she wondered—

"Shannon?" he asked hoarsely.

-which woman he was going to ask for.

_Shannon_.

It was like a punch to the gut, but she was so used to sucker punches these days that the mistake hardly fazed her; she barely flinched. She hated the idea of shattering his delusion, and as much as she selfishly wanted him, she wished she could tell him it was Shannon here beside him—but she wasn't Shannon Gibbs, and she never would be; he had made sure she knew that.

Diane smiled emptily.

"At least you didn't ask for Jenny," she said dryly, her eyes on his dry lips.

She leaned forward and put his hand over his gently, scooting her plastic chair a little closer to the bed.

"It's Diane, Leroy," she confessed dully.

He looked down at her hand, and then looked away.

She'd give anything to know what he was thinking.

He licked his lips, and he turned his head back to her; he was awake now, true to Marine form and wide-awake in an instant. His eyes were guarded, even if they were fatigued and blunted with the stress of an injury. He shifted towards her, and flinched violently at the pain, his jaw tightening so he wouldn't yell—instead, he swore.

Diane lifted her hand, clearing her throat, and dosed him twice with the morphine—as she'd been instructed to do. She also turned and pressed a button to page a nurse, another thing she'd been told to do as soon as he awoke. He glanced up at the number counting his morphine intake and breathed in shallowly. He didn't move again.

"How do you feel?" Diane asked lamely.

She wasn't particularly well versed in the art of conversation when it came to post-bullet wound small talk. She didn't know what to say or if she should just start listing off what the doctors had told her.

"Like I got shot," he answered gruffly.

She tilted her head, the corners of her mouth tilting up in a reluctant, admiring smile. It figured that he would bear it like a rock; he took everything else with silent strength. He didn't seem fazed at all, beyond the unexpected shock of pain he'd gotten—when she thought of it, it was irregular that she'd seen him express the pain visibly, but then, he had been unprepared for it.

She slipped both of her hands over his, running her fingers over his palm. He flexed his fingers in hers, turning his and over and letting her caress it. He watched her touch him, his chest still moving shallowly.

"The bullet broke a rib and ruptured your spleen," she said mildly. Her tone was so calm, so neutral and one-dimensional that he looked at her apprehensively, as if she might leap at him viciously at any moment—the last time he had seen Diane, she had taken a golf club to his head.

Diane cleared her throat and leaned forward, lifting his hand in hers and then resting her elbows on the bed and her chin on their hands.

"They did a partial splenectomy," she informed him.

He narrowed his eyes and turned, swearing through gritted teeth when it hurt, and he tossed off the covers, messing with his hospital gown. Diane bolted upright tensely, arching over him. She dropped one hand and lunged for the other.

"Leroy," she snapped. "You're going to tear your stitches," she admonished curtly, and held his hands captive.

"_Took_ my _spleen_?" he asked gruffly—and she thought it was the most comical thing, and almost burst into absurd laughter.

He was fine, and it hadn't been too invasive or horrid of a surgery, and he was waking up to a minefield of women and paperwork and a warzone of a marriage, and he was suddenly heartbroken and fussy over his _spleen_.

"Half of it," Diane soothed, nearly shoving him into a relaxed position. She covered him back up, and looked at him with an arched brow. "I said _partial_ splenectomy."

He looked baleful, his brows knitted tensely, and growled under his breath, mumbling words she couldn't understand.

She straightened up a little, and frowned, her expression hardening a little. It was as if she abruptly remembered that this was the man who had cheated on her—abandoned her at her brother's funeral for the embrace of another woman—and he was at her mercy. He leaned back, and he clamped his mouth shut—abruptly, maybe, he remembered it, too.

She crossed her arms under her breasts, steeling her emotions somewhat, both comforting herself and throwing up a firm front.

"You'll be out of work a couple of weeks," she said narrowly. "Out of rigorous work for a couple after that," she added. "You need time to recover."

There was an obstinate glint in his eye that told her it would be an uphill battle to get him to take it easy. If she were honest with herself, she wasn't sure she had it in her—or cared—to fight him on it; if he wanted to work himself dead, perhaps she'd be easier off; a widow, rather than a bitter divorcee.

"I have to stay here?" he asked distastefully, looking around the bland, immaculate hospital as if he were already strategizing an escape.

Their interaction was cool, practiced—superficial. It was informational and clean; they barely scratched the surface of his infidelity or her anger; it wasn't awkward, it was simply _shallow_.

"Two days," Diane said, and she relished it when she saw the indignity in his eyes, and she felt a pang of guilt for glorying in his injury—just a small one.

She didn't want to stand anymore; she sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, looking at her lap—at her bare ring finger. She rubbed the place where her engagement and wedding bands once sat, her eyes on the faded, white tan line there. She hoped his attention was drawn to the action; she hoped it haunted him.

She was struck with the abhorrent urge to tell him she had kicked his little concubine out of the waiting room, but she didn't know what good it would do—other than let him know that woman was brazenly clinging to him like she had no right to do.

He broke the silence.

"My team catch the shooter?"

Diane nodded, her eyes still on her finger.

"I was told Agent Decker shot her," she answered in a low voice. She looked up at him through inscrutable lashes. "No one else was injured."

He nodded. He said nothing.

Diane shook her head sharply, throwing her hand up. It came down, landed with a smack on her knee, and she stared at him biting her lip tensely. He looked startled by her movement—he winced, and she parted her lips, but she didn't know what she was going to say. Tears swam in her eyes, because she was angry and this had scared her—getting this call had scared her, and she hated him for making her feel so worried when she hated him so much for what he'd done.

She wanted to yank his head back by the short hair at the nape of his neck and scream at him, _demand_ to know what he'd done and what he'd said to Jenny Shepard to put that lovesick look in her feline green eyes; had he courted her, flattered her, treated her to all the charms Diane had once received?

But she didn't. She sniffed, swallowed her tears, and cleared her throat huskily.

"You can come home," she said with stoic resolve. "I'll be damned if I let her nurse you," she lashed out. "You can come home with me."

She bit her lip, and he just nodded slowly. He still said nothing—_goddamn_ Leroy, he never said anything.

When he proposed to her, he said he was never one for words, and to those precious words he'd been true—but she didn't like to think of that proposal, because it belonged to a different man, a sweeter man, one that got lost in his depression and his inability to cope with tragedy.

Diane opened her mouth to say something else, but then again bit her trembling lip, tears springing to her eyes and stinging. She turned her head away, lifting her hand to her mouth, and then—at the turn of the doorknob, and the appearance of a nurse—she hastily composed herself, and she faced Bethesda's medical team like her world wasn't crumbling under her feet.

* * *

Jenny lifted her eyes listlessly when Ducky bustled into her kitchen with bags of takeout; she blinked away the pathetic look she knew was in her pupils and steeled her features, pointing out utensils to him when he politely asked.

Burley had gleaned a minor amount of information from Diane; Gibbs was out of surgery, and he was not in danger of his life. He had a broken rib. He'd had a partial splenectomy. Diane had been forthcoming with no other information—and Jenny had barely been listening, barely comprehended, when Burley told her in the car.

She tapped her finger pointedly on the miniscule evidence jar in front of her, listening to the bent and busted up bullet clatter around inside. Decker had recovered it at the crime scene. Decker had brought it, and much of the casework to her house, because instead of driving her to work, Burley had mistakenly brought her home thinking that's where she wanted to be.

Well, it wasn't. She wanted to be working and occupying herself, and making sure they closed this case airtight.

She tapped the bullet again, and Burley disappeared to get the liquor—another benefit of working off the job; they could indulge in a little alcohol to take the edge off.

Jenny was well aware of Decker's sharp eye on her, but she couldn't stop fingering the bullet in the evidence jar—the bullet, Gibbs' bullet, the tiny metal object that had ripped through his abdomen and smashed against a wall in that house in Maryland.

She lifted it into her palm and leaned back, narrowing her eyes. Decker's written case report was in front of her, hastily composed, lacking in finesse. She had read over it a thousand times in an attempt to figure out what had gone wrong—they had cleared the house! They had gone according to procedure; there was no reason Gibbs should have ended up with a bullet in the gut.

The woman had hidden in the bushes outside; she had come in and started firing when she heard them yell _clear_.

Burley came back into the room and said something complimentary about Jenny's alcohol selection. She looked up, tilting her chair back and arching her brows mildly. He was back with some of the scotch, a bottle of rum, and—

Her chair crashed to the floor and she stood up, clenching the bullet in her hand—her eyes hot and focused on the half-empty, expensive bottle of Wild Turkey suddenly haunting her kitchen table.

"Not the bourbon," she snapped, wrenching it off the table as if it were her life's blood and whitening her knuckles as she held onto it in her free hand.

She fixed a hard, almost poisonous glare on Stan and went to move past him. Decker peered at her in shock; Ducky with consternation, and she tossed her head, trying to ignore it.

"We're working a case," she said tightly. "Whiskey's too hard."

Burley bristled, never afraid to challenge Shepard. He gestured at the other bottles he'd chosen.

"But scotch is okay? Just a different kind of whiskey, Shepard," he pointed out sharply.

Jenny pulled the bottle of Kentucky bourbon closer to her and her eyes flashed.

"You can't have the bourbon," she said bitterly, her words dropping like ice—and she brushed past him roughly, storming down the hall into the study where she locked the precious bottle up.

It was Gibbs' bourbon; the Wild Turkey from the weekend he'd spent here before everything had gone to hell, when his wife had been in Baltimore and things had been light and the darkness hadn't totally consumed them yet. She had kept a bottle of her mother's Jack Daniels for twenty years, and she had yet to dispose of her father's scotch—these things meant something to her, and she'd be damned if the team got drunk of it in the kitchen.

She had not foreseen her reaction; she wondered if they thought she was insane, and she took her time walking back to the kitchen—she didn't want to walk in and face them right away; she was suddenly embarrassed, and her cheeks flushed.

She paused outside the door and leaned her head into the wall, and she heard Decker talking.

"She's messed up," he said blandly.

There was nothing insulting about the way he said it; it was an observation he made, and he was reluctant to make it and didn't like admitting it.

"He nearly bled out on her," Burley answered tensely. "It'd fuck anyone up, and Shepard's damn near head over heels for him," he grumbled, though it wasn't the bitter, jealous grumbling of the old days—it was protectively resigned.

She winched, closing her eyes—her emotions couldn't really be that obvious that Stan—

"What the hell'd you give her that bullet for, Deck?" Burley demanded in a low voice.

Decker didn't answer Burley. Jenny took a deep breath, leaning back. She pushed her hair back, holding the sides of her forehead in her hands and staring ahead of her—composure, she needed composure.

"Did something happen at the hospital?" she heard Decker ask bluntly, his voice still lower. "Between her and—Diane," he said. "They get into it?"

"Don't know," Burley answered. "She asked me to leave. Can't imagine what Mrs. Gibbs said to her was very sweet," he snapped angrily.

Ducky said, with a small note of sad pride:

"Look at how far you've come, my boy."

Stan grumbled something, and then Decker said:

"Duck, you think I need to boot her off the case?"

And Jenny couldn't stand and eavesdrop any longer; she couldn't let them bench her because they thought she was too much of a weak, simpering fool to do her damn job in the face of emotional stress. This was not the first time her work had gotten difficult, and it sure as hell wouldn't be the last—she needed to deal; to compartmentalize.

She steeled herself, and with all of her mental capacity, thrust Jethro from her mind and locked him away, and instead she put _Gibbs: Boss_ at the detached center of the present.

She tossed her hair back and walked into the kitchen, picking up a carton of Chinese take-out and blithely snatching Burley's chopsticks from him.

"I want to know why Abbott did it," she said coolly, distracting from the way she'd acted, putting on her agent face. "She could have rabbited on us. Instead she barreled back in and lights up four federal agents. She had _no_ chance," Jenny paused, and bit into a piece of orange chicken. "Why?"

Startled at her sudden change in attitude, the boys scrambled to pretend they hadn't just been assessing her fragile female state and contribute to the conversation normally. She leaned against her counter, cocking her hip, and looked at them expectantly.

Decker lifted his shoulders, a little forlorn.

"She—had nothin' left," he muttered. "Maryland cops were on the way to blockade that neighborhood," he explained.

"She knew she couldn't get caught, she'd never get out of jail," Burley supplied.

"And if Gibbs got his hands on her, Shepard," Decker said ominously, shaking his head. "She'd be dead anyway."

Jenny chewed indignantly.

"Not unless she fired on him," she said skeptically. "Gibbs would never—"

She broke off at the looks on their faces. Gibbs would never shoot first; take down a suspect with no hesitation and cold-blooded precision without being fired upon first—_would he_?

"He would, Jenny," Burley said dully, shrugging his shoulders. "We've seen 'im do it."

"He'd have shot her," Decker agreed grimly. "On sight."

Jenny's lips parted in shock, and Decker looked at her intently—he knew what was at the heart of Gibbs' trigger finger when it came to the murder of children; Gibbs hadn't dealt with his family's death. He had never faced it; he'd just shot the culprit and thought that was that—Decker knew much about Gibbs that he would bet Jenny would never know, and it was solely due to the fact that he had been with Gibbs under Mike Franks' tutelage, and Franks had a big mouth when he was drunk.

"Why?" Jenny asked quietly, a little disbelief in her voice.

"He's John Wayne," Burley answered, and snickered dryly.

Jenny moved her head imperceptivity.

"He can't," she said. "It's not in—it's against the rules."

Decker shrugged, poking around in his carton.

"Ah, but the question is, my dear—how does Gibbs operate? Does he follow the rules, abide by the ethics?" Ducky spoke up sagely, a small reflective smile on his face, "Or does he do what his gut tells him is _right_?"

Jenny was sure she forgot how to speak English when Ducky turned his kindly, wise eyes on her, and she moved her lips soundlessly—when she finally could breathe again, speak again, she cleared her throat and tilted her head.

"I think I'll have to recuse myself from answering that particular question, Ducky," she said lightly, with a wry, heavy smile.

In light of recent events, she'd been asking the same question of herself—when it came to work, and when it came to Jethro.

She was acutely aware of Decker and Burley intently watching her exchange with Ducky and she snapped her eyes over to each of them in turn; they both hastily pretended to be eating their food. Her eyes fell on Decker again, and she lifted her shoulders, asking the one thing she hadn't been able to ask yet—

"What _happened_ down there?"

-because she and Burley had cleared the house, they had gone upstairs, and then it had all gone to hell in a bloody hand basket.

Decker smiled bitterly.

"She charged in through the back door—she was camped out in the yard, in the bushes," he explained bluntly. "When we opened the doors to clear the house, and you two went up stairs, she came in. I had my back turned, and then out of nowhere Gibbs was thrusting his gun over my shoulder and he grabbed me by the collar and threw me down," Decker paused, and laughed, "He threw me, Burley," he said, with a grin. "Like that time he demonstrated how marines break a sentry's neck? It wasn't as much of an ass kicking, but he flipped me onto my back one-handed," Burley was cackling at the memory, and then Decker shook his head, and sobered slightly: "and then he was down," he said, with a shrug, "and I took off after her out the back."

"Bastard," Burley muttered affectionately. "Gibbs can't let anyone take a hit meant for 'em, he always has to take it," he piped up, and took a swig of beer. "That time he got taken down by that punk on a dirt bike, because he was shoving Rawls out of the way?"

Decker nodded, smirking.

And Jenny looked on, silent, removed from their memories—she was just realizing how long they had worked with him, and how well they understood his professional motives and the way they meshed with his personal code; she was thinking, with a sinking feeling, that she might not know him as well as she thought she did.

Seven months, and a clandestine, passionate affair—it didn't mean anything in the face of this trust, this camaraderie they had with Gibbs; it didn't mean anything in the face of a hard-fought marriage –and she wondered; did the affair mean to Jethro…what it meant to _her_?

She gnawed on the edge of her chopstick, and she ignored stalwartly the probing look Ducky had fixed on her—she didn't think she could bear the good doctor's kind, philosophical words.

Jenny popped the chopstick from her mouth and swallowed all her thoughts and insecurities down. She fixed a mild, guarded look on her face and tossed her hair back, praying the minute shake in her fingers was invisible to her team mate's eyes.

"When does he come back to work?"

Decker tilted is head back and forth.

"His recovery time is minimum two weeks," he drawled slowly, "maximum six." Decker smirked and shot a look at Ducky, and then shrugged his shoulders. "But it's Gibbs."

Jenny cocked her brows, and pursed her lips.

"Meaning?"

Burley snorted.

"He'll be back in five days."

* * *

The most disconcerting part of being home was Diane's silence.

There were other things that made it difficult—it was always a blow to come home to this house where Shannon and Kelly no longer were, and now he faced the memory of the last time he was here, staring into the face of the woman he'd betrayed while his affair unraveled before his eyes. There was a strangeness to the house for a moment, stemming from her sole inhabitance of it for weeks, and there was the tense atmosphere between them—and yet still, the most disconcerting part was her _silence_.

Diane, who always had something to say, whether kind or biting, intelligent or amusing, was utterly quiet on all subjects; she spoke only when necessary, only when spoken to—and then, only if she thought he deserved an answer. He rarely saw a need to speak to her—what could he say?—and because of that, the house was quiet, and it was maddening and suffocating.

She worked frequently; she spent most of the time out of the house. He found it odd that she seemed to always be around to cook dinner. There was always coffee—and instead of making him feel affectionate and grateful, it shamed him; it made him feel hollow and withdrawn. She was cold and aloof, she wasn't the passionate, loving Diane he'd married, but she was taking care of him, and he didn't deserve it.

The first day or two home, he begrudgingly took the dangerously strong painkillers they gave him, but he hated it; the drugs made him feel weak, and they robbed him of lucidity—when in this house, with this woman, he wanted his wits about him. He chucked them out and started taking regular ibuprofen like it was candy; it's what they'd done in the Marines, and he saw no harm in it.

The ibuprofen dulled the pain enough for him to function, though it wasn't nearly as good as the _prescribed_ good stuff.

Truth be told, he knew he had scrapped the weapons-grade painkillers because he thrived on the physical pain; it was such a relief to grit his teeth and focus on his broken rib or the hell of discomfort the partial splenectomy was causing rather than everything else that weighed him down.

He could focus on the physical pain, and he could sink into a silent analysis of Diane; she was baffling him; she made him uneasy and she confused him. She calmly insisted he sleep in bed, and she slept next to him—but she was always gone before he woke up, and she stayed out as late as possible. She never mentioned the divorce in his presence, but her lawyer called him as if they weren't living together again. She relayed messages from Ducky or Decker cordially, and she left him alone, snapping at him or raising her voice only when he became difficult as a patient.

She didn't lecture; she didn't swear at him, and she didn't cry. He had the haunting suspicion he would never see Diane cry again, and though there was a time that might have relieved him, now it filled him with remorse and dread, because he sensed that it was his actions that had damaged something in her spirit.

He caught her staring at him, when she thought he wasn't looking. Staring; just studying him coolly, with her bright, smart eyes open intently and glittering with something he couldn't place, and the look made him uncomfortable, and it struck him dumb with guilt.

It was the third day he was home from the hospital that he went to the basement and shut himself down there; he was forbidden any sort of strenuous physical activity, but he was bored and stir-crazy, and he'd be damned if they'd tell him he couldn't work on his boat.

Grimly, he thought, _I'm lucky it's still standing_.

Sarcastically, he thought, _She could have taken a golf club to it._

He immersed himself in the woodwork, until each movement of his hand absorbed his thoughts and the movement of his sander on the arch of the boat's ribs sanded away the thoughts occupying him and his mind was blank—and he couldn't or wouldn't notice the fracturing in his stitches, and the blood seeping through his old t-shirt.

He _didn't_ notice, until his estranged wife noticed for him.

"_Leroy_," she barked, her voice low but commanding.

He damn near jumped; he hadn't even heard her open the door or come down the stairs—he was too absorbed in himself.

He looked over, and she was standing there in her work clothing, holding the bottle of pills he'd chucked in the trash in her hand stiffly. He figured she'd been about to let him have it for throwing away the expensive, necessary painkillers, but he found that his going against her orders and venturing down to the basement obliterated the pills from her mind.

She narrowed her sharp eyes at his injury, and then raked them up his body to his face, her mouth tightening.

"You have explicit instructions not to exert yourself," she said coldly.

He lowered his hands, glanced at the spots of blood, and rolled his eyes, shrugging.

"Not like I ran a marathon, Diane," he retorted gruffly.

She ignored him and stormed across the basement, abruptly throwing her purse and the prescription pills onto the counter. She hooked her foot around a stool and yanked it forward, snapping and pointing to it.

He opened his mouth to snap in annoyance at being bossed about like a child, but something stopped him, and he resentfully muttered under his breath and strolled over, sitting down casually. She pushed his shoulders back firmly and hiked his shirt up, leaning forward with a critical eye to examine his wound.

Her hand rested on his side and his skin leapt, as if trying to run from her; even the slight pressure pained his healing ribs and irritated the tender skin around the bullet wound. Her brows knit together, and she touched the blood seeping out from around the wound, tightening her jaw.

"It's nothin'," he muttered caustically.

"You stress this wound, Leroy, and you tack another week onto your leave," she answered curtly. "You want to be confined to this house with me for an additional week, then keep pushing it," she threatened.

"I'm not gonna be out two weeks," he said abrasively, bristling at the notion he'd take that much time off work—he never had, and he never would; not until his quitting day.

She lifted her hand from his wound for a moment, her eyes glinting aggressively.

"You will obey the recovery rules set out for you," she said imperiously, her tone foreboding. "For once, you'll listen to me, Leroy," she smirked mirthlessly. "Consider it a penance."

She turned back to examining the wound, tilting her head, and then she peeled back the bandage slowly. He winced, and muttered a sharp curse under his breath—one of the worst ones the Marines had ever taught him.

She hardly reacted, beyond the curt comment:

"It doesn't matter to me if you want to quit taking the Demerol," she said, noting his violent reaction to the pain and correctly deducing that he meant he'd been off the drugs for a while, "but don't let me catch you throwing it out again. Demerol is expensive; you don't waste it."

Her demeanor made him anxious; apprehensive. She was so medical; she was so removed from their relationship. The stiffness in her was daunting and he was struck by the sudden, unfair urge to melt the ice.

She held the bloodied bandage in her hand and pulled back, straightening up.

"Come upstairs and let me re-dress this," she ordered bluntly, showing no sign of distaste or queasiness at the gore.

He looked at her with guarded eyes, and she met his glare when he didn't move; he felt her eyes moving over the still-healing bruise that marred his nose and part of his brow and eye socket—the golf club injury. She reached out and ran three fingers along his brow, tracing the cut the seven iron had inflicted.

Gibbs moved forward, discomfort flitting across his face, and his hand darted out and he touched her jaw, his palm sliding over the column of her neck, eyes falling to her lashes, the slope of her nose, her parted lips—her mouth quivered, soft, and then turned to steel, and she jumped as if electrocuted, grabbed his wrist, and shoved it into his chest with aggression that surprised him.

"You son of a bitch," she swore icily. "Do not touch me," she asserted, in the same composed, frozen voice.

He winced; he sat back, straightening his shoulders, tensing his jaw. Her name formed on his lips, and it was as if she saw it, saw the heavy letters of her name forming in her mouth, and the words that would follow—words that didn't mean anything to him, or to her, and that she didn't want to hear:

"If you apologize—" she began dangerously, the black ink of her pupils seeming to swallow any semblance of kindness in her eyes. She licked her lip, and bit it, so that the edges of her mouth went white.

"Don't," she said, and she gave him a bitter, unforgiving glare. "It's a sign of weakness."

She turned his words on him like a loaded gun and fired; the bullet hit hard. He stared at her, and she clenched her fist, and left, fleeing up the stairs, her mouth a harsh, impenetrable line.

She didn't want to hear it. It was capitulation. It was pandering. She didn't believe he was sorry; she believed he was sorry he was caught. He wasn't sorry for the reasons she so badly needed him to be—for hurting her, for breaking his vows, for _ruining_ her—and she was acutely aware of it.

So, she didn't want to hear it.

He was right; he had always been right: apologizing because polite society dictated it was weakness.

* * *

Decker effortlessly took the reigns of leadership while Gibbs was incapacitated; it was understood unanimously that he would step into Gibbs' shoes and he did so confidently though reverently. He wasn't a man who was eager to have Gibbs' position; he respected his boss even though their relative experience level was fairly equal.

Gibbs had begun working with NCIS in mid-1992, after a finale mission with the Marines, and after Lara Macy's investigation into the shooting of Pedro Hernandez. He had worked for Mike Franks for six months before Decker had joined them, and then they'd been a trio until Frank's volatile retirement. Gibbs had the seniority; he was a better investigator. Decker was more interested in the same kind of covert work Jenny was.

Decker slammed the Halston case shut with an iron clasp; both perps were dead, and there wasn't much left to do but sort through paperwork and pick up the pieces. Jenny was surprised that Burley made hardly any wisecracks about Decker suddenly becoming their superior—but that was the thing; Decker ran the team differently than Gibbs. It didn't quite feel like he _was_ their superior.

Decker was the same guy; practical, intelligent, friendly, a bit of a goof, a bit of a wise-ass, and mild-tempered. His technique was showcased when they caught a case on the third day in the office without Gibbs, and everyone, waiting to see how Decker would manage them, apprehensively attended to the crime scene.

And Decker was…Decker.

He bounced ideas off of them. He was laid back, but firm. He divvied up work evenly. He didn't push them, overtax them, or slave-drive them—and Jenny could not get her head around her assessment of the situation.

These past few days had been trying. She was completely cut off from Jethro; she hadn't heard a word from anyone as to how he was doing or what exactly the extent of all of his injuries was. Decker had filed his reports with the help of Diane—and Jenny had stayed far from that aspect of the case. She was stressed; she was worried and a little scared and somewhat angry. She couldn't say definitively whom she was angry with—but she was targeting an unnecessary amount of the anger at Diane Gibbs.

She just wanted to _see_ Jethro, and it frustrated her that she _couldn't_.

She stayed away from her home, wary of the bottle of bourbon in the study, afraid she might drink too much, and afraid to wallow in her empty house and the time they'd spent hiding from the world there. She didn't want to be alone too often, for fear of letting thoughts of her father or the affair swarm her and try to swallow her, because they made her feel bad and conflicted all at once until her head ached and _ached_.

Her time and effort at work in the past few weeks since the affair came to light, and then the days since Gibbs was shot, had nearly tripled—and it made her look so competent, competitive, and generally successful at her job that it was really the only good thing to happen to her during this time; she knew it reflected well and it only amped up her file to make her looming promotion seem plausible.

The promotion, the promotion—she had to face a choice on the promotion; she was running out of time.

There were times when her mind was made up one way or the other, and then in an instant—with a word or a look from someone, or a memory from something—her mind would flip and change and she was stuck again.

There was no voice of reason to discuss the subject with; she couldn't bend Morrow's ear for advice. The thought was absurd; it embarrassed her—asking the director, _gee sir, should I stay here with my married lover, because I can't sort out my womanly desires, or should I take this opportunity of a lifetime that I so begged for? _It wasn't a decision Burley could understand, because he was like Gibbs and he was forever a cop, not a black operative.

She didn't have any girlfriends left, really, and she had no desire to discuss this with Margaret—Miller was so focused on her career change, and training the new girl that Jenny had yet to meet…the redhead was at a loss really; she was trapped in a mire of decisions and emotions that she barely had time to breathe much less-

"Hey, space cadet," Decker broke into her thoughts abruptly. He arched an eyebrow, amused, and lifted his hand, chucking his stress ball at her. "Earth to Jenny, this is Major Deck to ground control."

Startled, Jenny caught the ball with surprising agility and straightened up, popping the bubble she'd been blowing with her chewing gum and letting her heel noisily and unceremoniously slide off her desk. She furrowed her brows, staring at Decker.

"Space—what did you call me?"

"Space cadet," Burley supplied cheerily. "'Cause you spaced out."

"I most certainly did not."

"Uh, you did," Burley corrected, while Decker nodded firmly. "We had an entire conversation about making you wear a dunce cap because your eyes were so glazed over and you didn't even hear us."

"Yeah?" Jenny asked dryly. "How did that conversation turn out?"

Decker pulled something off his desk swiftly and presented it to her solemnly.

"We made you a dunce cap," he said seriously, his face completely straight.

Jenny lowered her hand slowly, looking at the proffered cap with her lips parted. She glanced over at Burley sheepishly, up at Decker, and then leaned closer to examine the hat. Fashioned out of two pieces of office paper rolled into a cone, it had squiggly lines drawn all over it and, in bold, black permanent marker, all capital letters reading:

JENNY, PROBIE DUNCE.

She hesitated, and then tilted her head. Decker dangled it a little.

"You have to put it on," he informed her.

"What?"

"You agreed to it."

"_What_?!"

Burley nodded, matter-of-factly coming in on Decker's side.

"We asked you to blow another bubble if you'd wear it for the rest of the day, and you blew another bubble," he said.

Her mouth hung open a little—how the _hell_ had she been _that_ zoned out? This Gibbs thing, this _thing_ with Jethro…it was really getting to her. She needed resolution; she needed somewhere for this stress to go, or it was really going to screw with her head.

"I," she began. "I'm not putting that on."

"Jenny," whined Burley. "You _have_ to," he looked wicked. "It's a rule or somethin'. Rule sixty-seven. Always keep your bubble gum promises."

"There are fifty rules," retorted Jenny. "And I highly doubt anyone has ever popped bubble gum around Gibbs and lived to have a rule made about it."

Burley frowned; she had a point.

"You have to uphold your dazed bargain, Jenny," Decker said solemnly. "It's been a hard week—and," he paused, sighing dramatically, "well, Gibbs nixed our early hazing of you in the bud; we barely got to give you a real probie treatment," he explained. "Put the damn hat on, Jenny," he narrowed his eyes for the kicker. "I worked hard on it."

She wasn't sure how she was suddenly being guilted into wearing a hat that _by definition_ mocked her entire person—but she was. She chewed on her lip, flattening her gum with her back teeth, and then rolled her eyes, sighing in resignation and leaning forward. She held out her hand from the hat, and Decker gleefully passed it on to her.

Jenny gave a crooked smile and fixed the cap onto her head, holding out her hands with a wince and showing it off. She waited for their reaction, sitting at her desk with the dunce cap on her head, flattening her hair; the boys were grinning impishly, and Decker was moving back towards his desk slyly.

"Told you she'd wear it," Burley said devilishly, and then held out his hand.

Decker snatched something off his desk, and then darted to Burley's side of the bullpen, slapping twenty bucks into his palm and unexpectedly holding up a camera and snapping a photo of Jenny—dunce cap and all.

She shrieked in surprise, her eyes widening, and a burst of genuine laughter escaped her lips—the hat fell lopsidedly down her head a little, sitting crooked, as she tried to keep a straight face and become enraged that they'd just bet on her _and_ taken a photo of her in the ridiculous hat.

"Aha!" shouted Burley, pointing at her triumphantly. "Your laugh _isn't_ broken," he gloated, and when she looked at Decker—and he was taking another stupid picture—she saw he was smiling and looking relieved, and she realized they'd been trying to snap her out of it, and cheer her up.

Unexpectedly, laughing was an okay way to breathe out some of the grief and stress she was clinging to; it was a welcome way to relax a little and maybe cheer up, take comfort in the colleagues she had and the upside of her life.

She fixed a mirthful flare on the boys and pointed her fingers accusingly and melodramatically at Decker.

"And to think," she began with lofty sarcasm: "I was just starting to decide that you were better at this than _Gibbs_!"

* * *

Ah, but neither of them were Gibbs—and when she went home at night, the stress and the darkness that pervaded the corners of her mind crept back in, silent as the grave, threatening to consume her. She strived to carry on as she always had—as she had before the affair started, as she had during it—but she couldn't; things were different. They were obviously different and tangibly different; it wasn't just that she could no longer ignore the mess they were in and the reality of what they had done, it was the simple cold presence of his shoes by the door, his razor in the bathroom, and his wrinkled shirt on her bed.

His things—the things Ducky had discreetly brought over after Diane had kicked him out—were scattered vaguely all over her house; there were aspects of Jethro all over, and yet she felt like it had never happened; almost like he was never _here_.

She came home wide-awake and tired at the same time; her stomach hurt from laughing with her teammates all day, but under the shallowest layer of her skin everything was building up and rooting in deep. She felt unclean. Since that day in Maryland, she'd felt like she had his blood all over her still—his blood, literal and figurative; the blood from his wound, and the blood of his murdered marriage.

The house was quiet and cold. It was Noemi's night off. Each little sound she made was loud and echoed through the empty brownstone, and Jenny winced every time. She retreated upstairs to her bedroom, her sanctuary, and ran a bath; she turned on music—any music, she didn't pay attention to what was soothingly wafting through the radio speakers—and sank into the hot water, closing her eyes, tilting her head back so the scalding bath dampened the edges of her hair and then crept upwards to her scalp; she breathed in the heady scent of bubble bath and steam.

She found refuge in the bath, and let her mind wander, and it was so unlike the time during the advent of her tenure at NCIS that she'd run a bath and thought of Gibbs. It wasn't fantasy or indulgence this time; it was stark reality and she was drowning in it.

One ill-fated trip to Maryland, and he was back with his wife—though he had no choice in the matter—and she was cut off, left stranded without him, anxiously worrying after his health, apprehensively wondering what was being said about her, desperate to know what he was thinking.

_Because of one ill-fated trip to Maryland. _

The words went through her head again and she pursed her lips, opening her eyes and looking at the ceiling through wet, heavy eyelashes.

No; _two_ trips to Maryland—the first one, during which they had first fallen victim to the temptation of adultery, and now this second one, when a bullet had shattered their already fragmented dalliance and irrevocably changed the dynamics of an already fucked up relationship.

It was a legal document, a legal necessity that put Diane back on top, but it was seeing the other woman face to face, meeting Diane's eyes in the waiting room and witnessing the absence of ignorance in them, that had ensured Jenny never had the upper hand again; in Diane's oblivion, Jenny had held the power; she was the predator—but in the scope of Diane's cognizance, she was in the spotlight, in the wrong, and she was prey.

Jenny had never been prey to any adversary, and the naiveté that came with the unprecedented position she was in threatened to upend the core of who she had always thought she was; she was so conflicted, so upset, so sad and hurt over Jethro that the thought struck her icily that she was defining herself by her feelings for him, and she was frightened by the notion.

The unsteady ground they'd been treading had revealed itself to be quicksand, and she had to use every ounce of cunning and wit she possessed to escape before, at twenty-six years old, she was engulfed by a choice that could stall her career and damage her heart.

Jenny turned her head and pulled the wrinkled shirt off of the side of the tub; she had brought it in here with her, to look at, to remind her of him—it smelled like him. She held it in her hands and ran her fingers delicately over the buttons, playing with the loose strings where the one was missing.

She bit her lip, and held the shirt to her face, the sleeves dragging in the hot bath water, the worn, rough material brushing her face.

_Before_ she damaged her heart?

Her heart was _broken_.

Broken, because this had been over from the day it started.

She was starting—she was starting to see that but she didn't—she didn't know what she was going to _do_.

* * *

Diane stood alone in the kitchen, with a half-filled glass of wine and a carton of Chinese take-out. She hadn't bothered to cook tonight. Leroy had no appetite and she wasn't going to force food down his throat. She still took up her usual spot in the dimly lit kitchen to eat; she spent as little time with him as possible.

Allowing him to return home was more difficult than she imagined; she was prone to bouts of uncontrollable aggression and hatred towards him, and in the next moment, she was close to tears and wanted to cling to him and beg him to help her fix this. She hated the dichotomy of feelings battling in her heart and mind, and so she blocked it out, by avoiding him, and by devoting herself to her job, brutalizing the divorce, and searching for a place to live.

It's where she was most of the time when she wasn't at work; she was critically searching out apartments or condominiums—she planned on setting herself up nicely, and she was going to use every dime she wrenched out of him to do it; he couldn't fulfill her needs emotionally, so by god he was going to help her drown her heartache in material comfort.

She chewed balefully; the food tasted plastic and cold to her. She didn't have much of an appetite either. There were dark shadows under her eyes. She wasn't sleeping well; she tossed and turned. He was a frustrating patient, and she knew in the back of her mind that he didn't want to be here—he wanted to be elsewhere.

Somewhere else, with some other woman. Maybe it was Jenny, maybe it was Shannon—she didn't know anymore.

It was too upsetting to dwell on for too long, the question of whether he wanted a dead woman, or a living, breathing, younger woman; it was _upsetting_, and the answer didn't matter because no matter what the answer was, it _wasn't_ Diane, and so she lost either way.

She pushed her food away, and drank the rest of the wine, her eyes lingering on the empty bottle.

She winced. She had forgotten how many glasses of wine she'd had.

Leroy was sick. He wouldn't admit he was sick—but he was. He had a fever; it was nothing serious, just stress from his wound. She didn't know how to handle him sick. He was listless. She'd never seen him _listless_.

She ran her tongue over her lips and rinsed out her glass in the sink, walking to the counter and taking fever medicine and a painkiller out of the medicine bottles. She held them in her hand lightly. She went to the basement and poured him a shot of bourbon flippantly, and then made her way slowly to their bedroom.

He had been growling about needing a drink for days, and she had forbidden it; she was giving up now. She was tired of fighting him. She wanted him to look at her with less hostility and guilt and trepidation tonight; she wanted a little warmth, and giving him liquor might earn her a smirk.

He was asleep on his back, though he didn't look peaceful. She set the pills and bourbon down on the table and crawled into bed, leaning over him. She looked at his face, at his eyes moving beneath his lids, his mouth twitching tensely—lips moving—

She woke him up. She gripped his shoulder hard and a little callously, _rudely_ waking him up, because it didn't take a pro at lip-reading to see _Jenny_ on his mouth.

He swore, his eyes opening abruptly, sat up, and winced, swearing again at the sharp pain.

"Goddamnit, Diane," he growled.

She offered no apology or comfort, just pointed him to the table where his _treats_ were.

Blinking himself awake, he sat up and looked over, slouching; her eyes fell to the bandage on his side, and she reached out, gently adjusting it. He pointed vaguely at the alcohol.

"Can I take those together?" he asked gruffly.

She glanced up.

"No," she answered coolly. "I'm attempting to murder you," she deadpanned.

Neither of them laughed, but his lips moved in a sort of hollow smirk. She shook her head; inching closer and running her hand over his bare, hot skin.

"It's fine, Leroy," she soothed curtly. "It's a small shot, and just a mix of aspirin and Tylenol."

He nodded. He dry swallowed the pills, and chased it with the alcohol. She took the shot glass from him, and he leaned his head back, his eyes closed heavily. She stretched out next to him, still tending to his injury.

"You feel okay?"

"Fine."

She touched his back.

"You still have a fever," she muttered.

"M'fine, Diane," he muttered shortly, flinching away somewhat.

Diane looked up at him, waiting until he sensed it, and meeting his eyes when he opened them. She reached up and again, touched the bruise on his face—she did this often; it was almost as if she were proud of her violence. She wasn't, but she didn't tell him that it was just an excuse to touch him; to possess him.

"Nightmare?" she asked.

His face was unreadable. His mouth was a hard, tight line. He shook his head slightly.

"You were dreaming about _her_," Diane said quietly, a thinly veiled layer of spite in her tone.

He said nothing, but he lowered his gaze from her eyes to her mouth and focused there intently.

"You were going to call her name," Diane continued, her words frosting over.

"Why'd you wake me up?" he asked cruelly.

She hardly missed a beat.

"I didn't want to hear it," she said, voice shaking, like ice over a frozen lake breaking. She bit her lip and shook her head stiffly. "I don't want to know how you say _her_ name, Leroy."

It was remarkable; they both knew they were speaking of Jenny, and not Shannon. He never called Shannon's name; he woke up from dreams about her in a cold sweat, eyes wide, eyes searching, trying to see her, muscles stiff. He didn't yell for Shannon. He was struck silent with grief over her.

Gibbs grunted; he made a noise in the back of his throat. He shifted uncomfortably, and Diane's eyes flashed and stung—it angered her to see him uncomfortable and it pleased her at the same time. Her blood rushed bitterly and she pulled away from him, leaning back roughly against the headboard. It banged against the wall and she winced; she pushed her hair back, looking down at her lap.

"She stayed at the hospital," Diane told him hoarsely. She fiercely hoped that it hurt him, made him feel awkward and guilt-ridden and sick; she hoped it hurt his head and his conscious and punctured his heart, however he felt about Jenny Shepard.

Diane nodded, swallowing hard.

"She had the nerve…she waited. She even fell asleep," Diane went on. She grit her teeth and smirked with no humor. "That woman…that stupid bitch," she swore. "She cried the whole time," Diane looked over at him harshly, her eyes glittering. "She _cried_ for _hours_ over _you_," she accused.

He did look at her now, his face an unreadable, strong mask. His eyes were fathomless, cool blue pools that seemed to go on forever—eyes a woman could drown in, and eyes women _did_ drown in. Diane glared back fiercely, letting him see her wrath, and her humiliation and her sadness.

"Diane," he said tiredly, his voice rocky. "You're drunk."

He could see it in her eyes.

"I'm not," she fired back, but she saw his eyes dart to her lip, and her lip curled and that was her tell—she was lying. She bit her lip and lashed out at him: "It doesn't matter if I'm drunk," she cried softly. "Your _girlfriend_ was crying over you in the emergency room," she said, spitting the words, her mouth puckering. "It wasn't just a _physical_ affair—you," she stopped and seemed to think better of it.

Why was she doing this to him—to herself? Why was she bringing this up, when she _was_ drunk, when she _was_ vulnerable, and he was feverish and off his game. She had been too strong lately, too focused on her desire to make herself hate him; she wanted answers, she desperately wanted to know what had happened, what he had been thinking—what had been his mindset when he left her bed for Jenny Shepard's?

"What does she have that I don't?" Diane asked bitterly.

He didn't answer. His jaw was set and a muscle in his temple was jumping—he looked like he was stressed; in pain. He shook his head slightly and then lowered it, leaning forward, his forehead in his palms.

_It wasn't like that_, didn't she understand? It wasn't a list of Diane versus Jenny, pros and cons. It was emotion, inexplicable, connection, attachment—it was hormones and bad choices and good feelings from the wrong person, it wasn't anything Diane had done _wrong_ or Jenny had done _right_, it was bad timing and it was him—seeing in Jenny _something_ he'd been looking for.

Diane pushed her hair back and swallowed her tears. She wasn't going to cry; she had already decided he wouldn't see her really cry ever again. She leaned forward and she touched the back of his neck, gritting her teeth and setting her jaw. She forced her voice steady, and fixed her eyes on his hidden face.

"Leroy," she said clearly, firmly. "Leroy, look at me," she ordered. He didn't—but he would, and she went on, her hand on his feverish, slick skin possessively. She asked him what she had asked him already, the question he hadn't answered—"Leroy, are you in love with her?"

She had asked before, and then she just wanted to hear him say no; now she just had to know, for better or for worse. It was killing her. It was tearing her up from the inside, because she kept seeing Jenny's grief-stricken face in the hospital, and following that waves of anger and sympathy were assaulting her and she found herself thinking, _I have to warn this woman, I have to tell her he's napalm, he's hemlock, he's going to hurt you-!_

He looked at her, his head in his hand, and she was struck speechless. Her throat was dry at just the mere flash of depression in his eyes, something so black and unmitigated that she wanted to scream; he suffered so much, and she had to fight to remind herself that _it wasn't an excuse _for treating her so badly.

His glare was subdued, dark, hollow—conflicted. She almost drew her hand back from his neck, afraid to touch him suddenly, afraid it was somehow burning him—his mouth moved silently, and his words were forced through a dry throat:

"She isn't Shannon," he said.

Vague. Feverish. Dull. Excruciating.

Diane bit her lip. Impulsively, she lunged forward and pressed her lips to his sweaty temple, her face buried one last time in his silver hair, in his neck. It wasn't an answer. She knew with a sinking feeling that Leroy was in love with his agent, and it made her sick, but there was a difference between being in love and being able to recognize it, and being able to give love, and _feel_ that love like it should be felt.

He couldn't do it. He was stuck. He was never going to get over his loss.

Diane pressed her lips to his temple again with a sense of defeat, of responsibility, and she swallowed, her stomach hollow suddenly—she closed her eyes, and saw Jenny's green, distraught eyes staring at her from her memory.

_She isn't Shannon. _

Neither of them would ever be.

* * *

Jenny walked into the bullpen a mere week after Gibbs was shot in Maryland, and there he was, sitting at his desk as if nothing had happened. It was like a punch to the gut; she was so startled and unprepared—she came to a halting stop as if she'd just run in to an invisible brick wall.

Thoughts and words collided in her mind and in her throat; the world went silent.

There had been no warning; this was unexpected and she hadn't had time to steel herself, construct a persona of professionalism, get her feelings in check and school her reaction. He was just there again, there where he'd been gone for a week, and it was _almost_ as jarring as if she had walked into her father's study to find his usual glass full of scotch, and the man himself enjoying it heartily.

She was thus flustered because she was once again in a position where she didn't know where they stood; he had gone from practically living with her back to his wife and now he was back at work before he should be and she—she was still trying to get over the last time she'd seen him, laying bleeding and unconscious in an ambulance.

She grit her teeth together tensely and swallowed.

Sound crept back into the world, and she realized Burley and Decker were busy getting their things together, and things were running as if it were a normal day.

"You're late," Gibbs pointed out gruffly.

His tone was so normal, so unaffected. She looked at her watch and bit her lip—it was almost eight. Decker hadn't been so strict on them coming in at the crack of daylight; he liked late mornings himself. She shot her teammates a look—how had they known to be here early today?

Gibbs took a drink of his coffee, eyes flicking back down to the materials on his desk.

Jenny forced herself to walk to hers as if nothing was amiss, and she cleared her throat, shrugging her shoulders. She tossed her hair back over her shoulder, dumping her backpack into her chair and reaching for the elastic band at her wrist.

"I was painting my nails," she said smartly, choosing an inane excuse that wasn't true and that was sure to make Gibbs roll his eyes in misogynistic annoyance. Her nails flashed by her neck as she swept her hair into a messy ponytail, and though they were indeed lacquered in a bold red, they were unevenly filed and a bit chipped; clearly not recently manicured.

She'd given up manicures since she started police work.

"When you're done with your hair, you wanna gear up?" Burley asked, snorting at her.

She paused, her hands above her head.

"Where are we going?"

"Federal Triangle," Decker answered slowly, looking at Gibbs sideways. "Crime scene."

"Crime scene that's _really_ screwed up traffic," Burley said dryly.

Jenny frowned. She pulled her hands down and furrowed her brow, snatching up her gear again. She hated having no time to prepare before they went out into the field; her mind was more organized that way—more settled. Maybe that was why Gibbs always wanted them at work so early.

"C'mon," Decker said to her.

"Gibbs?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

He held up an evidence jar silently.

She saw that it had his bullet in it, and she bit the inside of her cheek; she winced and looked away—she sought out Decker.

"He's sittin' this one out," Decker said neutrally. "Catchin' up on what he missed."

"Ah," was all Jenny said.

Decker and Burley went off towards the elevator—but she hesitated. Burley shot a look at her over his shoulder, a look that seemed to tell her they understood she needed a moment, but she better hurry the hell up; she nodded at him curtly.

She looked back at Gibbs, and he was peering at her guardedly over the evidence jar. She walked over to his desk, backpack slung lazily over her shoulder, and she stood next to him, her eyes falling to the cleared spot on his desk where she usually perched. Today, she didn't perch.

She looked at him. He looked the same. He didn't even look pale—unless you squinted, maybe, and tilted your head. It was unbelievable, and she felt like smiling in relief and snuggling up to him somewhere secluded and private. She couldn't, of course. She had so many questions, so many concerns—but she was just silent.

And he lowered the evidence jar, tapped it, and he said:

"Think it's got some of my spleen on it," in a smug sort of drawl.

She paled slightly; it was macabre and not funny and hilarious all at the same time—so she laughed in disbelief, a little breathless, and she tightened her lips, shaking her head at him.

He leaned back, and that's when she saw the stiffness in his movements, the slight movement in his brows and jaw as he suppressed a grimace at the injuries he was straining by ignoring doctor's orders. He set the evidence jar in its box and pointed to her case report on the whole ordeal—it was on top.

"Best case report you've ever written," he said.

It was a rare compliment; he hated how she did write ups. He accused her of using too much pomp and circumstance, of writing like an English prodigy instead of a cop, and he'd been trying to coach her into writing the basics, the cold hard facts, clearly and concisely.

She smirked faintly.

"Your sheer brilliance at writing case reports must have transferred to me while you bled out on my lap," she said dryly, shocked at her cool ability to make that joke—but it seemed to be what he was comfortable with, though suddenly she could see the storm brewing beneath his eyes, and she wished more than anything it were tonight, and they were at home—her place, because she could see that in his eyes; she just had to wait until tonight.

He'd be there.

"Last ditch attempt to complete your training," he said flippantly.

"Mm, through an exchange of blood?" she asked. She arched a brow. "Next thing you know I'll be searching for my reflection and shrinking from crucifixes."

"What?"

She shook her head, and bit her lip.

"Never mind, Jethro," she said softly.

He leaned forward. He picked up his coffee and pushed it at her wordlessly, lifting his chin a little—because he knew her; he knew she was loath to go to this crime scene without having coffee, and he guessed she'd had her cup hours ago.

He was right; she took the proffered drink, and took a long sip. It was a silly thought, but she thought it tasted like him—she was grasping at straws, she knew, but it was so surreal and yet so raw for him to be sitting here, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't been shot badly, like his wife wasn't waging war against him, like he hadn't spend half of this year inadvertently making her love him.

Her lipstick marked the cup, and she handed it back. Their fingers brushed.

"Had it worse, Jen," he said gruffly, shrugging.

His shrug was stiff, and she smiled tightly, her lashes shaking a little anxiously.

"I haven't," she said honestly.

She hadn't ever been injured like that—she hadn't ever seen him injured like that. She didn't know him professionally that well; hadn't worked with him or learned him like Decker and Burley had. She let him know with those words that she was shaken up, and he just met her eyes with understanding for a moment, and then his blue eyes darkened and a sort of confused pain flooded them, and he jerked his head towards the elevator.

"Go," he said.

She clutched the strap of her backpack—and on a whim, she took his coffee; she was going to take it with her to the crime scene. He didn't protest, and that—somehow—comforted her. She stomped down the violent need for an expression of affection, both physical and verbal, and just gave him a curt nod goodbye.

She met Decker and Burley at the elevator, and Burley gave her an annoyed look at making them wait. They all three stepped on together, Decker eyeing her stolen coffee with a wary, unreadable expression that gave her pause—until the doors shut and Burley let out a gloating snort.

"Pay up," he said, holding his hand out to Decker. "I was right," he said, lording it over his colleague. "He was back in five days."

* * *

She wished there were some other way to describe it—she wished there was some excuse for her to be sitting on her stairs tensely, her hands on her knees and her eyes on the front door like some simpering teenage girl. She could claim she was reading—she had a book next to her—but the small median landing on her stairs wasn't prime real estate for reading, and she hadn't touched the book; it was there for moral support. She was forced to admit to herself, though she'd never let it be known to another living soul, that she was _waiting_ for him to walk up her porch steps.

Waiting, just like a foolish sixteen-year-old with a new beaux or a dreamy prom date; waiting because she fidgeted in the kitchen, she was too emotionally strained to spend any time in her father's study, and every where else reminded her so much of him she thought she'd go mad occupying herself there.

Waiting—and right when she thought the waiting itself would be the thing that drove her out of her mind, she saw him through the stained glass on either side of the door, saw him slam his car door and walk up the sidewalk; he hesitated on the front porch, deciding between knocking or the door bell, and she was on her feet—inexplicably with the book in her hand, to look as if she'd been occupied—and she opened the door wordlessly.

His brow twitched up slightly, expressing mild surprise that she was preempting his knocking or the ringing of the bell, and she bit the inside of her lip, swallowing hard. She leaned against the door and cocked her head, lazily stepping aside to let him in—in the same, familiar way she always did.

Like nothing had changed, everything like nothing had changed—even when they both _knew_ that things had changed so dramatically nothing was recognizable.

She barely recognized herself these days.

She shut the door, and leaned against it, her hand running over the lock smoothly. She ran her fingers around it, turning it slowly, and he looked her up and down mildly before taking her book from her and looking over the title. He smirked, and turned it around, holding it up to her, his eyes searching hers, and she lifted her shoulders brazenly.

"I can relate," she quipped hoarsely.

_Queen of the Damned_ was the title, and yet she hadn't really known what book she was grabbing off the shelf—but she supposed, subconsciously, she had gone with the one that made her feel as powerful as a sinner could feel.

Gibbs' eyes flickered with something akin to wry amusement, and he tossed the book onto her hall table, next to the bowl that held her keys. His keys followed the book, landed on top of it, and she hearkened to the sharp sound, turning her head, biting her lip.

She felt his eyes boring into her, and she closed hers lightly, breathing in deeply. She didn't want to speak first. She suddenly didn't know what she had been waiting for; she was paralyzed.

"Jen," he said gruffly.

She leaned back against the door more firmly, tilting her head into it, and moved her head, opening her eyes wide and looking at him. Her lashes fluttered, touched each other fleetingly, and she moved her lips soundlessly a moment, glaring at him as if she couldn't really believe he was standing there healthy—_healed_.

"Noemi can't get your bloodstains out of my clothes," she said in an odd hollow, congested tone.

He watched her throat and her jaw move, and tightened his, clenching his teeth. She moved her lips again, wetting them with her tongue, her cheeks paling slightly and then colouring. Her hand moved on the door, nails pricking against the wood.

"I had your blood under my nails," she said. "In—my hair."

"Don't think about it, Jen," he warned, though there was a gentle note to his tone, and it only served to spur her on; she hadn't been able to voice these fears, these feelings—she'd had to fight them down and _work_ instead. Like he was _just_ her boss. As if he didn't mean _so_ much to her.

"It's all I think about," she said softly, narrowing her eyes imploringly. "It was a nightmare."

She was glad he hadn't seen her at the hospital—what a mess of sobbing and coughing and red eyes and mascara she'd been.

He was silent for a moment, so silent she thought she had put him off her—but then he flicked his eyes to her mouth, and back to her eyes, and he looked uncomfortable. He grit his teeth.

"She told me you were there all night," he said gruffly, his voice masculine and guarded, with a practiced air of flippancy that she saw right through. She sensed—he wanted her to confirm it; he wanted to hear…but that didn't make sense; that wasn't _Jethro_.

She bit the inside of her lip again, her body tensing.

"She—told you?" Jenny asked softly, surprised, and an unexpected, confusing feeling of gratitude towards Diane swept through her; she stamped it out, unable to handle it. She hadn't expected Diane, of all people, to tell her husband that— "Burley was there," Jenny said hoarsely, moving her hands behind her to cushion her tailbone. "He had my back," she remembered, as if it were important for Gibbs to know that she and Stan were getting along.

Gibbs looked skeptical; he snorted sarcastically, and she noticed how tensely his muscles moved when he did. Her eyes fell to the place beneath his shirt she knew his injury would be, and they were glued there.

He said, "Been shot before."

She tilted her head up in disbelief and let out a laugh—it was the same damn thing they had said, Burley and Decker both. These men, these men who thought it was no problem, no big deal; they didn't understand. They weren't inside her head, they weren't wearing her shoes, and _they_ didn't know what it was like to be Jenny Shepard pressing her shaking, small hands to a furiously bleeding bullet wound on the man she loved.

She shook her head, looking at the ceiling, her eyes half-closed; she swallowed to steady her voice and suppress a choke in her words, or a shake, or any errant tears.

"She kicked me out," she said weakly, feeble anger and resigned annoyance in her tone. "She—cut me off, and she wouldn't tell me if you—if—" Jenny paused. She licked her lips. "I thought you were dead," she admitted in a hushed, tight tone, giving voice to her worst fear, to the trauma she'd felt that day in Maryland.

She felt weak and vulnerable—and she felt, rather than heard, him take a few swift steps towards her, until he was right in front of her, and when she opened her eyes, she was looking into his, fierce and cobalt blue, alive, awake, safe, and comforting. His hands touched her neck, his body close to hers, leaving barely any space between them, and she breathed in sharply, her chest heaving in surprise and relief; she grasped his elbows, holding them tightly.

"'M not dead, Jen," he said mildly, and then tilted his head towards hers, lowering it slightly, and arching an eyebrow. "'M right here," he said, his voice low, more firm and stable. She pursed her lips, and he half-smirked, though he understood the seriousness of the situation. "I'm okay."

She shook her head, strands of hair flying in wisps by her cheeks, tangled, her lips parted and stained with faded red lipstick. Her brows knit together and she let him feel her slide her hands up his arms, pulling him closer.

"I'm not," she admitted simply, her mouth so close to his.

She saw the lust ignite in his eyes—it was always there; it was always in her, too—and she felt unstable, physically and mentally, as if she might snap. Anxiety and solace flashed through her eyes simultaneously, and she was fiercely happy to have him there and unbearably pained at the same time.

She didn't think; she moved her hand, reached up to touch the back of his neck, and pulled his lips to hers—oh, she didn't even _think_.

She never did any _goddamn_ thinking around him.

He returned the kiss effortlessly, with no fight, his whole body pressing forward into hers, pinning her to her door, enveloping her with the satisfaction and respite of his scent, his taste, and his warmth. How was she ever going to survive this—survive _him?—_when all the intelligence she'd been given and the logic she'd mastered vanished in the face of this debilitating inherent flaw she'd fallen prey to—this raw, human _emotion_?

His hands were in her hair, stroking, tangling, pulling slightly, his arms wrapping around her and holding her close to him, tight so she could feel his heart beating, his pulse racing, his muscles flexing—even the tight, stressed muscles of his abdominal injury molding against her hip. She ignored it—ignored it in favor of giving herself to him, body first and purposefully, soul second and accidentally.

She rose up on tiptoes to arch closer and gasped against his lips, breaking for a moment for a breath, and kissing him again, like it had been eons, light years—as if she were marking her territory. He groaned; her hands were sliding over him, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, digging nails lightly but possessively into his chest, falling to his belt and tugging her hips into his.

He slid his hands from her hair down her back, pulling her hips to him, shoving her cotton shorts to the floor, then slipping them over the backs of her thighs. He caressed the smooth skin, fingertips pressing into her—he gripped her, and lifted her up, his muscles almost shuddering with the strain it up on him, and he slammed his body against hers to keep her up around his waist, pinned against the door.

She cried out softly, tilting her head back, and he ravished her neck with his lips, trailing kisses down her collarbone to the low V-neck dip in her shirt. She dug her heels into his back, arching her body into his again, gasping when the friction of his jeans met her panties—and he let his fingers wander from her thighs to her abdomen, fingertips teasing her skin softly, lightly, dipping down beneath the lingerie.

Jenny moaned; she was starkly reminded of Maryland, of this same urgency and passion, felt up against a doorway in cheap hotel rooms—in the middle of an undercover operation. There was so much more substance to the desperation and need she felt now; so much less secrecy but somehow, so much more shame.

She reached for his hand and held it, her fingers slipping into his, and she gasped, trying to catch her breath—she'd stopped him right before he could get here there, and he saw the struggle in her eyes as she tried to hold it off, back away from the edge.

"Bed," she managed huskily—_like Maryland_.

_Take me to bed_, she'd said.

He nodded, and she was startled when he turned away, holding her around his waist, adrenaline throbbing through his eyes and the jumping muscle in his temple—

"Jethro," she gasped, pleasure and shock melting together in her voice. "Don't—" she pleaded, tried to warn him off, but he was already half-carrying her up the stairs. She tightened her legs around him and her eyes flashed. "Goddamnit, Jethro, your—"

She was about to remind him of his injury when he lost his footing; pain flashed across his face and he winced, stumbling on the step—he managed to catch himself with his knee and one braced hand, but that entailed letting go of Jenny, and she bore the brunt of the fall, the breath knocked out of her the moment her back hit the stairs at an angle.

She cried out, her leg tangling in his, and tilted her head back, trying to catch her breath—and she laughed, angry, hurt, and amused all at once. It was the shower all over again; it was lacking in finesse and messy; it was what they deserved.

She leaned forward and her hands flew to his shirt, pushing it open, reaching for his injury, but he knocked her hands away, shaking his head.

"Fine," he grunted, his mouth finding hers again, one hand sliding up her cheek and tangling into her hair. Her lips moved, but her half-hearted protests faded into his lips, and his knees were pressing against hers, between her legs, his hand between them pulling at her panties.

She reached down and helped him, unzipping him, pushing at his jeans with her foot.

She moaned, frustrated and exhilarated at the same time, tilting her head back, breaking the kiss.

"Bed," she said again. "Jethro—you're hurt, my back—oh, _God_."

He thrust inside her, and she bit her tongue, blindsided by how good it felt, distracted from the dull discomfort of her stairs digging into her spine and shoulders. She splayed her hand over stomach, her fingers brushing the gauze over his wound. His head fell to her shoulder heavily, his lips brushing her collarbone. He was breathing heavily, his forehead wrinkled.

"Jesus, Jen," he groaned into her skin, lips moving soundlessly.

He reached for her hand on his abdomen and held it against her, his hand shaking slightly—he felt feverish, and when he moved again, thrusting with obvious difficulty, from the position and the gunshot handicap, she could _feel_ it, her fingers brushing against him _and_ her. She moaned at the intimacy of it, dazzled by how hot it was, and she was glad he had the foresight to move her hand, silently tell her she needed to help him, because his lips were suddenly on hers again, and he was swearing a mix of her name and unintelligible words into her mouth, and she was dizzy with the unexpected rush of coming without having to really think about it—and it was over.

_Fast_.

He shuddered, his brow furrowing against hers, and he groaned in pained satisfaction, easing up on his bruising kiss, giving her a minute to adjust and relax before he pulled out and shifted, adjusting his jeans and collapsing into a sitting position near the rails. Her breathing was shallow, her face flushed, and she lay for a moment gathering her bearings before she lifted her head and rose up on her elbows, wincing, dreading the stiffness this was going to cause her tomorrow.

He touched her thigh, resting his arm over her leg possessively and tiredly, and when her eyes fell to his side, she saw he was bleeding through the bandage. She couldn't breathe; he was struggling to catch his breath, and meeting his eyes, she could see they were both a little worse for wear; they were both a little mystified at what had just happened, and thunderstruck by the animal desire and the unprecedented closeness that crackled between them.

She moved her hand—it was heavy and sweaty—and she pushed her hair back, parting her lips.

She scrambled for something to say, something to break the silence, and thinking of Maryland again, thinking of how this had all started, she found refuge in their best weapon; sarcasm, witty banter, teasing—and she mocked:

"What the hell was that?" She narrowed her eyes at him, lashes veiling the green orbs fetchingly. "Forget how to pace yourself?"

He slapped her thigh lightly, a gently, admonishing spank. There was something in his eyes that thanked her for avoiding a heavy conversation right now—thanked her for refraining from turning into his nurse.

"I took a bullet," he defended indignantly.

She breathed out rapidly, a sigh and an exhausted laugh all at once.

But she felt—she felt like she was the one who had taken the bullet.

* * *

It was late, _late_ after hours, and late by work standards, when she found herself standing back at her front door, leaning against it with her hand on the doorknob reluctantly. He had to leave; he had to go home.

Their relationship had done a one-eighty when Diane found out, and now it seemed to have spun again—done a three-sixty; he was back to living at home…back to sneaking out to Jenny.

He had unwillingly confessed that Diane had ordered him not to go to work until he'd at _least_ obeyed the two weeks rule, and thus had no idea that he had snuck out this morning. She'd be furious, and she'd be furious on top of that to know where he was now—but he didn't fool himself thinking she didn't know. There was no sense in hiding his relationship with Jen anymore—there was no sense in letting Diane think he wanted to be anywhere but with _Jen_.

He knew it, and she knew it, and if her taking him home and taking care of him was a last ditch attempt to salvage their marriage, it hadn't worked—because he sensed she had realized she was never going to forgive him, and she didn't want to. She was halfway to moving on, and he wasn't going to interfere with that by being charming or by seeking absolution.

He had deceived her for months, and that had hurt her; brutal honesty, it seemed, was best.

Jenny messed with the lock on the doorknob, stalling. She leaned her temple against the glass and smiled half-heartedly.

"You can stay here," she offered.

He smirked, wrinkled his nose minutely, and shook his head.

"Can't," he said. "S'not good for you," he remarked insightfully. "Puts you in the wrong position. It," he paused. "It messes with your head."

"No, it—"

He just nodded firmly, cutting her off. It did mess with her head, and it messed with his, too—and they needed a little bit of clear thinking right now.

She swallowed, pressing her lips together tightly.

"I," she began, her brow knitting uncertainly. She met his eyes. "I _want_ you to be here," she admitted, discovering it and deciding it in a flash of enlightenment.

He didn't react much; just inclined his head, and his eyes fell to her lips, roaming over her face and the curve of her neck. She shivered—it was cold in the foyer, and she wondered what he was thinking behind those guarded eyes.

When he didn't answer, she nodded, her eyes moving back and forth as she searched his.

"You want to be at home," she deciphered.

"Not because of her," he said dully. "She's—moving out."

He owned the house—he'd always been so manic over Diane wanting to take that house, and it clicked in Jenny's mind that it must have been his for a long time; it must have been the house he shared with the elusive Shannon. She just nodded her head again, and reached out to touch his hand, her fingers encircling his wrist.

He glanced down at the tender gesture, and while he was looking, his brow moved, and he looked at her mildly out of the corner of his eye.

"You still having nightmares?" he asked gruffly.

"It's nothing a long work day won't cure," she answered vaguely.

Yes; she always had nightmares. They were worse now, but it didn't matter. She didn't think he could do anything about it—she just wasn't in a good enough place to fight it off right now.

He squeezed her hand, and reached for the doorknob. She moved her hand from it as he took it, and opened the door, coaxing her to move out of the way. She crossed her arms tightly, shivering slightly at the biting air that rushed in. He paused, looking at her, and then glanced over at the book he'd thrown on the hall table before they had scrambled into each others and then subsequently to bed.

He smirked, and he tilted his head thoughtfully.

"Long live the queen," he quipped wryly.

Her breath caught in her throat and her lashes fluttered; she watched him go, eyes wide—it was like he was validating her, assuring her; saying: all things aside, he had chosen her. In a bloody game of chess, she'd checkmated the opposing woman; she'd taken the crown from her rival.

She bit her lip, and closed the door heavily, covering her mouth and pressing her forehead hard into the wood.

_Long live the queen._

She had no way of knowing then that he would say those words to her again one day.

* * *

Diane was livid; she was livid to find him gone this morning, she was livid all day at the hospital, and she was livid all over again when she heard him walk in and throw his keys on the kitchen counter.

She was livid, but she was going to ignore it. She resolutely chose not to care; she wouldn't satisfy him by reacting. She opted for the cold shoulder, the silent treatment, and she ignored his footsteps; she didn't greet him. If he wanted to strain that injury and end up dead, well—she would just let him. If he keeled over while they were still legally married, the benefits worked in her favor.

It was a nasty cruel thought, and she smiled tightly to herself—he'd been cruel enough to her, hadn't he?

She heard him in the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator, and she sought him out, narrowing her eyes when she saw the beer in his hands. She took it from him sharply, without a word, and retreated to lean against the counter, giving a slight shake of her head.

"No alcohol," she said curtly. "Doctor's orders," she added sarcastically, and took the cap off, and drank a swig of it herself.

There were rules she could enforce, and she was going to do it just to harangue him. It made her _feel_ better.

His eyes were baleful, but he said nothing, and she stepped forward, setting the beer aside and starting towards the fridge. He moved to get out of her way, and she caught sight of his abdomen—or rather, his shirt, and the blood lazily seeping through it.

Without even thinking, she broke her resolution of indifference and started forward, abandoning the cold beer.

"Leroy," she murmured, frustrated, annoyed, and medically concerned. "Were you in the field today? _Dammit_, why can't you just take it easy, just _once_?" She bit her lip and moved closer, her hands going to his side, pulling his shirt up gently. She lowered her head, her nose near his skin and his wrinkled polo—

She inhaled, and she smelled _Paris_.

She smelled _her_ on him.

Diane straightened up, realization washing over her—he had gone to work, and then he had shacked up with that tramp, and all while he was supposed to be in bed—and he'd torn his stiches and he was doused in her perfume and he had been about to just pop open a beer like there was nothing wrong with that.

She met his eyes harshly, and she saw it there; guilt, his confirmation.

Diane smelled _her_ on him…and she slapped him—_did he have any sense of shame, any self control?—_she hauled off and slapped him, slapped him so hard her arm stung up to the shoulder and the sound _screamed_ through the house—and what was worse, he just took it; he didn't flinch, he barely blinked—didn't grab her hand! He just bore it, and so, she burst into tears.

He thought he'd never see her cry again, and she'd sworn never to let him, but she couldn't fight this back, and she deserved this one last time.

"You just can't _resist_, can you Leroy?" she demanded violently, her lips shaking, her face pale with rage. Her jaw tightened and she pushed at him, her petite hands on his shoulders. She no longer gave a damn if she hurt his injury—in fact, she hoped it stung like hell.

Tears spilled over her cheeks and she bit her lip tensely.

"You can't quit her for _one_ day—you can't keep your hands off while we get divorced?" Diane looked sick, appalled, and desperate. "What _is_ it about this woman, Leroy?" she demanded. Her voice was shaking unhappily. "She's a worse plague to me than Shannon _ever_ was!"

"You filed for divorce, Diane!" he growled defiantly.

As if it absolved him, as if it gave him free reign to do whatever the hell he wanted to.

"You _fucked_ another _woman_!" Diane shouted.

Her breathing was ragged, her eyes red.

"You—you are a good man, Leroy. You have principles; you have integrity! You _save_ people for a living—and you, you lost your head over that snotty little brat, that home wrecking, vile, inconsiderate _brazen_ slut—" Diane broke off, exhausted by her own vitriol.

She bit her lip again, her eyes boring into his.

"You left me in Seattle for her. You abandoned me for _her_—and I took care of you in the face of that," she said dangerously, lowering her volume. "How can you stand here and use even an ounce of energy to defend your actions?"

"I didn't ask you to take care of me," he said distastefully, almost pleading with her to let him off the hook—he hadn't wanted her to be his nurse, to take that burden,_ she had chosen to do that_.

"You didn't _have_ to! I'm your wife—legally, I am still your _wife_," she snapped. "You didn't have to ask," she said, "and I shouldn't have to ask you to be—faithful," she stopped again, and it was as if all of the fight went out of her, and she realized how futile her situation was.

They were having a fight that was already exhausted; the cheating was in the open, the bonds of their marriage all but technically dissolved, and she was just fighting because she wanted to shout and rage and scream.

She turned her face away, wiping at her eyes. She turned to the counter, wrapping her hands around the neck of the beer. She lifted it, and he thought she was going to take a steadying drink—but instead she slammed it down on the counter, breaking the glass, and the alcohol fizzed out chaotically and made a mess.

He flinched, and her shoulders shook; she started to cry quietly—dejected.

"Sleep on the couch," she said hoarsely. "I don't want you—sleep on the couch," she said again, demanding he stay away from her with that one order.

He grabbed a towel from the sink and silently, tensely, went to start mopping up the mess, standing next to her cautiously as he focused. She looked over at him, her eyes moving slowly from the spilled alcohol up his arm to his face, and she smirked hollowly.

"I shouldn't hate her," she said huskily, her eyes sharpening, remembering her harsh, insulting words to Jenny.

Diane licked her lip in defeat and shrugged.

"I should _pity_ her."

* * *

William Decker was a laid back agent; he wasn't overtly ambitious, but he liked his job and he was damn good at it. He thrived just as well leading the team as he did working for Gibbs, and so when Gibbs reappeared before he medically should have, Decker shrugged his shoulders and moved back to his usual desk.

He was elbow deep in preparations to make the transition to his new position in LA. He was glad to get in some last minute-team leader experience before he went, and he was also thankful Gibbs' had taken back over so he had time to get his affairs in order—and one of those affairs was sitting Jenny Shepard down for a serious conversation.

He made sure he took her with him on an interview and home investigation for their latest case, and he made sure he proposed they stop for lunch on the way back. She seemed bemused and intrigued by the whole suggestion, but they were good friends and she thought nothing of it.

They stopped for a quick bite at a Beltway Burger, and took Styrofoam to-go cups with them for the ride back to the Navy Yard.

Decker held up the keys.

"Want to drive back?" he offered.

She shook her head, chewing on her straw.

"I hate driving," she confessed.

He cocked an eyebrow.

"You're always driving when it's you and Gibbs."

"Yeah," she agreed, opening the car door and leaning on top of the federal vehicle. She arched her own eyebrow and the wind blew her hair around her face. "'Cause it annoys Gibbs."

Decker laughed outright and shook his head, giving her a look before he ducked into the car.

"I swear, Shepard," he muttered, and she grinned, ducking in after him and slamming the car door.

She neglected her seatbelt for a moment, popping the plastic top off of her soda and stirring the ice inside. She reached in and chose a piece to chew on, while Decker fiddled with his seatbelt and the keys—he fired up the engine and she shivered, turning the air down. It needed a moment to get warm before they could blast it on high.

Decker ran his hands over the wheel and leaned back.

"Speaking of Gibbs," he said mildly.

Jenny crunched the piece of ice loudly and smirked, turning and pointing to Decker with her straw. There was a grim, unsurprised look in her eyes, and she wriggled the plastic instrument at him accusingly.

"Ha," she said dryly. "Knew there was a reason you bought me lunch," she drawled. "Cheapskate."

"Hey," he bristled. "I've bought you lunch before!"

"Not as much as _Stan_ buys me lunch," she retorted primly.

"_Stan_ wants to sleep with you."

Jenny bit the end of her straw and shrugged.

"More French fries and smoothies for me," she said nonchalantly.

She didn't care what Stan's motives were for being so free with his money; he just had a habit of buying the women he worked with things and never asking for cash in return. He did it to Margaret—er, he used to—and he did to for Jenny, even when they hadn't been on such good terms. It probably was because he wanted to sleep with her; she was smart enough to know that was half the reason he'd always been so _pissy_ at the beginning of her work tenure.

"You saying _you_ don't want to sleep with me, Deck?"

"How many times I gotta remind you, you're not a blonde?"

She was reminded of Maryland—so much reminded her of Maryland these days.

"Figure Gibbs has the monopoly on you, anyway."

"I'm not a board game," she snorted. "No one collects two hundred dollars at third base," she added, snickering at her own joke. She looked at Decker wryly through her lashes. "I could dye my hair."

"Gibbs wouldn't want you anymore."

"Only this hair," Jenny said, tapping her red locks with her straw.

Decker grinned, but a blush flickered across his nose.

"Cute," he complimented, leaning back in his seat. He looked at her, and she went back to stirring her ice, taking another silent moment to pick another piece out and put it in her mouth. She sighed and leaned her own head back, mimicking his posture and looking at him.

"What about Gibbs?" she asked neutrally, pulling her thumb and forefinger away from her lips, sans ice.

She was surprised; Decker never discussed her relationships with Gibbs. He didn't even really adopt Stan's habit of poking fun at it or referencing it whenever possible. Unlike Burley, Decker hadn't even really acknowledged it when it became sort of public knowledge. He just stoically never said a word, and so Jenny was understandably taken aback that he'd bribed her with lunch and decided to bring it up.

Alone. In a car. In Manassas.

Decker put his soda in the cup holder.

"Actually, it's not about Gibbs," he said frankly, correcting himself. "It's about you. Your career."

Jenny paused. She nodded once to indicate she was listening.

Decker frowned, taking a moment to choose the right words. Shepard was a good agent—but she wasn't spectacular. She was going to get moved up the ranks faster because she was a competent female, and NCIS needed a little affirmative action. She was sharp and intelligent; excellent for her experience _level_, but not wholly _better_ than any other agent Decker had worked with. In other words—Jenny was an outstanding probie, but she was merely a good agent.

She wasn't Gibbs. She wasn't Mike Franks—hell, Decker thought, she wasn't even Whitney Sharp.

But she could be. If she didn't let bad choices hold her back—and that's what Decker wanted to tell her.

"Look," he began. "I've never commented on your relationship with Gibbs. It's none of my business and it hasn't affected your work, so I don't give a damn. I don't know what Gibbs is like in private, but at work he's still a bastard to all of us, so whatever the two of you do behind closed doors hasn't ever been my concern," he said bluntly.

Jenny lifted her head a little, staring at him—indeed, she'd never heard Decker express so much personal opinion in her life. Her lips parted slightly, a piece of ice clenched and melting between her back teeth, she looked at him, barely blinking, and he went on:

"I know things are fucked up right now, since he got shot, and his wife slapped him with papers, and I don't know if that's 'cause of you or 'cause he's a bad husband—again, none of my business," Decker said firmly. "What I do know is his first divorce was nasty—not nasty like mean or petty, but nasty like it hurt, and before that—"

Jenny interrupted him quietly:

"I know what happened before Stacy," she said.

Decker's brows went up.

"_Do_ you?"

"How do you know?" she asked.

"'Cause I worked with his boss," Decker answered vaguely. "I started with 'im in LA, when Macy investigated—" he paused. "People here don't know about it," he said grimly.

"Gibbs doesn't talk about it," Jenny said softly.

"Yeah, well," Decker said tiredly. "It was bad. Reckon I wouldn't talk about it, either," he said.

He leaned forward, putting his hands on the wheel. Jenny swallowed, absently stirring her eyes. She smiled a little, but some of the lightness of the day was gone. She bit her lip.

"Did you know her? Shannon?" she asked.

"No," Decker answered. "That ordeal was before me."

She was tempted to ask how Gibbs had lost his first wife—but she didn't. She didn't want to know; and Jethro hadn't told her. Maybe because he hadn't had time before Diane showed up, or maybe because he didn't want her to know; either way she felt sick at the idea of going behind his back.

She couldn't imagine how she would feel if _he_ dug into her father's business behind her back.

She bit down on her straw, and then dropped it in her drink.

"What are you trying to say, Decker?" she prompted.

"I think he is a bad husband," Decker muttered unexpectedly.

Jenny laughed.

"I'm not going to _marry_ him," she snorted.

He looked at her intently.

"You sure?" he asked.

Jenny's smile faded and she stared at Decker—of course she wasn't going to marry him! She was—he was-! She stared at her colleague, wondering where the hell he was going with this, and her head ached a little. She shook her head, her eyes flickering into an absurd expression, and she scoffed at him.

"Decker," she said a little less warmly. "You're on thin ice."

"I know," he muttered unhappily. "Gibbs is damn good at his job, Jenny," Decker explained. "He makes or breaks people. Either they come out better, like him, or they don't cut it at NCIS. He's proved that with you," he smiled a little, "you know, since you got that promotion on the table."

Jenny grinned, and arched a brow.

"Aw, you think Gibbs is gonna make me?" she asked, teasing him a little.

Decker shook his head, and he shocked her with his next words.

"No," he said honestly, shrugging. "I think he's going to break you."

It wasn't at _all_ what she was expecting. She felt like he'd thrown cold water over it. Her smile faded, and she was left staring at him with sharp eyes, holding her straw in her hand limply. She pressed her lips together and pressed her tongue down against her back teeth, staring at Decker.

"You—think I'm not good enough?"

Decker laughed.

"Do I think—I think you're _too_ good for Gibbs, but that's a different question entirely," he said. "Naw, Shepard, I think you're good enough, that's why I _want_ you with me," he told her earnestly, "in Los Angeles," he clarified, and went on quickly. He shook his head resolutely. "You choose to stay, you hang around here with Gibbs, and whatever the two of you have is going to go sour, it's going to get old, or someone's going to want more than what the other can give, and then you'll have turned down the opportunity of a lifetime for him and you'll resent him for it forever," Decker paused, and shrugged again—blunt; straightforward. "He'll _break_ you."

"You don't know what I've decided, Will," Jenny said dangerously.

"I know you haven't taken the promotion," he said curtly. "Morrow told me. You've got ten or so days to tell him, and he hasn't heard a peep," Decker pointed at Jenny sharply, "and it's because _you_ are waiting to see what Gibbs is going to offer you."

"I am _not_," she protested defensively.

"Well, I'm not in your head," Decker said, backing off a little. "I like you, Jenny, I trust you. You're a damn good team member; a damn good ally to have in a bad situation—and you proved that when you stood your ground at the hospital even though Diane was there. I'm telling you from a _professional_ standpoint to take this promotion. I want you in Los Angeles. I don't want to see you waste your talent on him."

Jenny stirred her ice loudly, looking at Decker with her jaw clenched. She swallowed and looked away, glancing out the front windshield. He was right—she didn't have much longer. Thanksgiving was fast approaching, and the whirlwind that had taken place since Diane had discovered the affair and Jethro had been shot did nothing to change the passing of time and the inching closer of that date.

"It isn't a simple decision," she said in a hollow voice.

She felt him staring at her, but she didn't look at him.

"You love him, Shepard?" Decker asked starkly.

She moved her lips. She folded her arms, crushing the cup in her hands a little, and turned to look at him cautiously.

"It wasn't supposed to happen," she said, almost pleading.

He lifted his shoulders.

"It never is," he said sympathetically. "I can't tell you what to do. Just wanted to give you my vote of confidence, tell you you're good enough for Los Angeles, you'll shine there," Decker paused and reached up to rub his forehead. "Gibbs is messed up, Jenny. It's not your fault, but you guys got _bad_ timing," he muttered.

She was still reeling from everything he'd said. It all seemed so level-headed, and in all her stress and turmoil and confusion, she'd never thought to seek the counsel of her team mates—people who she acknowledged _knew_ Gibbs better than she did sometimes. At least, in some ways, they knew him better.

Jenny tossed her hair back and reached for a piece of ice, slowly and thoughtfully taking it between her teeth. Decker looked at her, cleared his throat, and reached up to rev the engine again, starting the car.

"Will you just consider what I said?" he asked.

She sucked the ice into her mouth and crunched it, and then she looked straight ahead and cocked her eyebrow.

"And what if he does offer me something?" she asked coolly.

She didn't specify; she knew Decker was capable of interpreting what she meant—a relationship, something stable, maybe marriage—probably marriage. It seemed like Gibbs had a penchant for marriage. And she knew she saw loyalty in his eyes, among all the other—as Decker had put it—messed up things about him that shone in his blues.

"You want an honest answer?"

She nodded. He shrugged, checking both ways before he pulled out of the parking lot.

"Take the promotion anyway," Decker said logically. "You can't build a relationship on the kind of foundation you guys had, so just break it off clean—or I'm tellin' ya, Shepard, he'll ruin you, and you'll hate him."

She frowned, but it was a thoughtful frown—she nodded, and put her lips on her straw, sucking the rest of her watery coke down. She slouched and looked out the window, falling silent, leaning her head against the glass. The mood in the car had dampened with his unsolicited advice, but she found she was oddly, grimly grateful for it—and her mind kept going back to Burley, in the bar.

_He's going to break you._

_Break his heart first._

It was like having two older brothers who had picked on her incessantly, and then, suddenly, when she needed it—turned out to be the common sense she'd been looking for since that fateful second night on a stakeout in Maryland.

* * *

Diane twirled a brand new set of keys around on her index finger, her eyes following them pensively as she walked down the posh hallway of the complex her new condominium was in.

She had spent the majority of Leroy's _short_ convalescence hunting for a place to live, and she'd just closed on a gorgeous, perfect little place in Woodley Park, one of DC's ritziest neighborhoods. The scenery was fantastic, the crafted sidewalks perfect for a morning run or walking a dog—she was definitely getting a dog—and it was near the zoo, a feature of DC that Diane was particularly fond of. In normal circumstances, sure, this upscale place was a little extravagant and out of her price range, but when the divorce was settled, she'd be able to pay it off easily.

She may have decided to let Leroy keep his precious house, so he could wallow and suffocate in his misery within those walls, but she was going to make him pay what it was worth—and it was worth a _lot_.

It was relieving to have this place here—she could move out, she could start to get on with her life. She wanted to be done with him—gone, and when she was, she'd face him in the courtroom and other than that, she'd block him out, for good.

She took the stairs down to ground level and buttoned her coat as she walked onto the pavement. She stopped in a coffee shop to buy a latte, and on her way out, stood on the sidewalk and looked up at her building. She gave a half-smile, her lips on the lid of the Styrofoam cup.

"If it isn't the stunning Mrs. Gibbs."

Startled, Diane's brows went up and she whirled towards the sound of the voice—her heart leapt in her chest painfully at being addressed as such; it meant she was about to face someone who didn't know what was going on, and she was in such a good mood that she didn't want to talk about _it_—

"Ah," she said, arching a brow, and lowering her latte. "Tobias," she greeted.

He was just coming out of the complex, followed by two of his usual suits, and they paused a ways behind him, comparing notes while he went ahead to chat with Diane. She gestured towards the condos.

"Please do not tell me there's a crime scene in there," she said dryly.

Wouldn't _that_ put a damper on her purchase?

Fornell smiled charmingly.

"No crime scene," he said. "Person of interest."

"_Wonderful_."

"Nothin' to worry 'bout, Mrs. Gibbs," he said wryly. "The prick didn't do it. He's just a prick."

"I see. Well. I can live with pricks," she quipped mildly. She took a slow sip of coffee and cleared her throat, splaying her left hand—her bare left hand—over the top. "And it's not Mrs.—well. Diane," she reminded him. "Just Diane."

Fornell noticed her movement with her hand and looked with interest at her naked ring finger. He snorted and shook his head, glancing up at her. He jerked his head at the condos. She smiled sarcastically, and he gave her another one of his charming smiles.

"I take it there's been a change?"

"We're getting divorced, Tobias," she confirmed frankly. She inclined her head the way he had at the condos. "He's paying for it."

"Does he know he's paying for it?"

"I'm sure my lawyer will slip him a post it or something," she said flippantly.

Fornell laughed, impressed with her candor.

"So," Fornell asked, shrugging. "What was the last straw?"

Diane licked her lips and looked at him skeptically, as if she didn't believe he was in the dark about it.

"I believe you've met her," Diane said smoothly.

"Ah," Fornell muttered.

He sighed, mentally shaking his head at Gibbs' foolishness. Diane was a fine woman—one Fornell had coveted on more than one occasion—and he really couldn't see why Gibbs would just chuck that all away chasing tail at work. Relationships between agents never worked, anyway—didn't Gibbs have a damn rule about that?

"Did you know?" Diane asked mildly, taking a cool drink of her latte. "That he was sleeping with her?" she clarified casually, and her mannerisms in that moment reminded him so much of Gibbs that he thought she had definitely been married to him for too long; it was like he had infected her.

Fornell shook his head.

"Nah," he said honestly. He'd had no _proof_. He'd just seen that hunger in Gibbs' eyes at the barbeque weeks and weeks ago. "Never thought Gibbs had the balls."

Diane gave a bark of laughter.

"On the contrary, Tobias, I think the decision had a lot to do with his balls."

Fornell grinned—like he'd thought, hell of a woman to neglect; hell of a woman to throw away.

"Eh, Diane, he'll realize how much he screwed up one day," Fornell said.

"No, he won't," she retorted dully.

She shrugged and took another sip of latte, turning to face Fornell. She was entirely sure Leroy was never going to _see the error of his ways_ or _regret his actions_ or any of that bullshit. He had a lot of honor, and he would probably feel guilty and he would wish he hadn't caused Diane so much pain, but Diane herself was confident that if he were given the opportunity to take what had happened with Jennifer Shepard back, he wouldn't do it—and she had come to accept that; it gave her some perspective.

"Fornell, we got to hit the road," one of the younger lackeys called, giving a wave in Diane's direction as he headed towards the car.

Fornell absently waved back to show he'd heard and smirked at Diane. He tilted his head towards the building again, nodding approvingly.

"It's a nice place. Nice little revenge," he said, knowing full well how expensive places on this side of town could be—and how much it was going to sucker punch Gibbs' bank account. "You ever wanna get back at him a little more, you give me a call," he said wryly, winking at her. "I'll buy you dinner."

Diane smiled genuinely and laughed, her brows going up. She offered her hand for Fornell to shake, balancing her latte in her free palm.

"Tobias, I might just take you up on that."

* * *

The house was empty and cold when Diane returned; Leroy never turned the heat on and bitched when she did—so she immediately went to the thermostat and cranked it up so that when he came home, if he came home, he'd be miserable.

It was evening; she didn't know where he was. Since the day he'd gone back to work behind her back and against doctor's orders, and then come home smelling like his mistress, she'd refused to ask or care where he was. He was sleeping on the couch and staying mostly in the basement, and that was fine with her.

He was more than likely living it up over at _Cleopatra's_ house, letting her fill his head with promises and stupid fantasies. It irked her that she was alone in an empty house, styled as Calpurnia, when she'd always, always grown up admiring the plucky queen of Egypt.

She smiled hollowly to herself when she thought of how that girl's empire had ended; in ashes and snakebites, because she was too young and too stupid to see that entanglement with the wrong man spelled disaster.

_Disaster_.

Thinking of it, Diane thought with resolved complacency of what she had decided would be her last move against Leroy. It was a thought she had entertained while he recovered, while she berated him to answer her questions about that woman and while she remembered the other redhead's tear stricken face in the hospital—and it was a thought she had decided to act on when he'd come home the other day from her bed.

Diane looked at her watch mildly, and went to the cabinet to get a glass and a bottle of wine. She poured the red liquid slowly, choosing to make her move tomorrow morning—she could make the call, go to work, and feel clear-headed.

She, at least, would feel clear headed—as for Leroy's other woman, she was almost certain this phone call would ruin her day, make her nervous and shame her and screw with her head.

And Diane _liked_ that idea very much.

* * *

Jenny had been in the study for what felt like days. She knew logically that it had only been an hour and a half since she'd woken up from a fitful sleep and escaped her bedroom, but it _felt_ like days. She was staring at a tumbler half full of scotch that she had poured apparently just to look at rather than drink, and she was thinking that she should light a fire because it was too cold in here and she should turn on music or something, because it was too quiet.

But she did none of that, she just continued to stare at the tumbler of scotch, and think intently about the man asleep in her bed upstairs.

It was a side effect of his injury, it seemed; the Marine who was usually so slow to fall asleep and easy to wake slept like the dead when he did get to sleep now, and her nightmare hadn't changed that. It hadn't been a really bad one tonight; she hadn't been thrashing or screaming—she just couldn't fall back to sleep.

It was six am, and her alarm was going to go off and wake him in thirty minutes. Noemi had come in and begun her work, bustling and humming, about twenty minutes ago. She left Jenny alone, well aware that when _Senora_ was in the study in the dark, she wanted to be left _alone_.

It was Thursday. Thanksgiving was in a week. She was thinking about two things; Decker, and Gibbs. She had a mental list of pros and cons that constantly cancelled each other out and battled each other for dominance. She felt like two different people; she was acutely missing her father's sage, experienced advice. She had once told him everything, and he'd been her closest advisor. She didn't have that anymore—she didn't have him anymore.

Remembering that made her remember why she joined NCIS, and what she was here to do. It made her choose LA. But then she thought of Jethro. Whether she liked it or not, Jethro had basically ruined his marriage because of her, and she felt like she owed him something for that. And what made it harder was that she wasn't reluctant to give something to Jethro—she wanted him. She didn't plan on him, but now she wanted to work him in, even if she knew with a dull, cold certainty that it was one or the other.

It was career or relationship; Los Angeles or Gibbs.

There was a time when she had a personal life separate from her professional life; she was kidding herself now if she pretended the lines were even blurred—the lines simply weren't there.

And she needed them _back_.

She couldn't help thinking cynically—_if he can do this to Diane, he can do it to you. _She didn't think he would—but was is naïve to think that? Was is naïve to think that Diane was his problem, rather than facing the fact that no matter how hard of a person Diane may have been to live with, _Jethro_ was the one who turned what he touched to dust?

Jenny leaned forward and pursed her lips, blowing wisps of hair out of her face. She reached up and pulled an elastic band from her hair, unbraiding the thick locks and combining her fingers through—and starting to braid again.

The phone rang, and her brow furrowed absently—if Gibbs was asleep upstairs, who the hell would be calling her at this hour? She thought nothing of it, until Noemi appeared hesitantly in the doorway a moment later.

"_Senora_?"

Jenny rapidly switched on the desk lamp, giving them some light.

"Noemi."

"_Senora_, _Senora_ Gi—" Noemi paused, and then covered the mouthpiece of the phone. "_Senor_ Gibbs wife for you," she said hesitantly, her voice hushed.

Jenny stared at her housekeeper blankly, unable to react.

_She's got to be kidding me. _

Jenny arched an eyebrow.

She lifted her hand slowly and pointed vaguely towards the upstairs.

"_That_ Senor Gibbs' wife?" she asked dryly.

"_Si_, _si_," agreed Noemi, flushing a little.

Jenny was reminded horribly of the night of the White House Dinner, when Noemi had come in with the same woman on the phone. She let her hand fall from her hair and compressed her lips, considering the words for a moment. Then she held her hand out and beckoned quietly.

Noemi handed her the phone, and she waited until the housekeeper had left to lift the device to her ear, lean back in the chair, and answer.

"Shepard."

She listened tensely to the cool, clipped voice on the other end of the line, her face betraying no emotion. She heard the alarm start to blare upstairs, and a moment later, the silence that told her Jethro had slammed his hand down on the snooze button. When Diane fell silent, Jenny closed her eyes lightly.

She leaned forward, and drank the scotch that had been sitting untouched in her glass all morning. She winced, pressed her palm to her mouth, and then nodded curtly to herself, and said into the phone.

"When and where?"

* * *

Gibbs leaned over the body on Ducky's autopsy table, listening vaguely to the droning explanation of the man's death. His relationship with the medical examiner was slightly strained due to Diane—and his refusal to comply with medical orders—and he was distracted thinking about Jenny.

Something was wrong with her; something was upsetting her. She wasn't sleeping well, and she seemed edgy and easily provoked to tears—not that he'd seen her cry recently. He didn't think it was residual panic resulting from his injury in Maryland; he was astute enough to see it was something else. She was worried; she was distant.

She had excused herself from work early today—with no reason, at least none she would divulge to him.

"I have something to take care of," she'd said ominously, and he just turned an intent, bold glare on her before he dismissed her—to the chagrin of an annoyed Burley.

Her behavior made him nervous; he bristled at the notion that he was being clingy to her but he _was_, and that was a startling discovery in itself. He should ask her—he should talk to her, say something to assuage whatever had spooked her—but he couldn't; he didn't talk, he wasn't a talker.

She wasn't either, but the twitching in her right eye when he'd asked her this morning if she was okay told him volumes more than her words ever did.

* * *

It was a secluded little coffee shop in no man's land, midway between the Navy Yard and George Washington University Hospital, which was chosen to be where the meeting would take place. It was mellow and quiet; a low buzz of conversation ensured privacy without solitude, and witnesses without a crowd.

The first redhead arrived early, and she ordered the bitterest brew they offered in a porcelain mug. She refused cream and sugar in the vein of keeping herself alert, and chose a table by the window, where she sat with one hand curled around the steaming mug and her lips pressed together tightly. Her leather jacket and scarf hung neatly over the back of her chair.

The second redhead was on time, arriving exactly the minute she'd said they should meet, and with a sharp discerning eye, she acknowledged that her counterpart was already seated and waiting, and ordered her usual sweetened soy latte; _she_ had no reason to be nervous or anxious.

She thanked the barista, and walked with resolve and purpose to join the other redhead at the table by the window, setting down her mug neatly and removing her own light pink wool coat. She noted, with only a mild irritation, that Jenny Shepard had the bothersome talent of looking stunning even in casual clothing, from a simple colour blocked sweater down to the crime-scene appropriate laced work boots on her feet.

Diane, sharply dressed in the professional sort of clothing appropriate for meetings in the physical therapy department and committee meetings at the country club, sat down, crossed her legs, and leaned back to let her coffee cool.

The women, alike in more ways than they cared to admit, looked at each other.

"Care to guess why I asked you here?" Diane asked.

"My housekeeper predicted you'd kill me," Jenny answered, a deadpan answer without a lick of humor.

Diane appreciated her lack of humility.

"You are the one carrying a weapon, Miss Shepard," she reminded her.

She shifted.

"Call me Jenny," she said.

"No," Diane answered simply.

Jenny's mouth tightened. She leaned forward, waved her hand over her mug to cool it. Steam wafted through her fingers.

"I'm not going to kill you."

"Then I can only assume you want to let me have it," Jenny said, resigned. She lifted her drink to her lips and hesitated, saying "and I wouldn't blame you for it," in an undertone before she took a sip.

"I do want to let you have it," Diane agreed curtly. "But it wouldn't change a damn thing. And it isn't why I asked you here," she said.

Jenny tilted her head, remaining silent. She had no idea what the proper etiquette was for this situation—having coffee with your lover's _wife_? There was no chapter in the NCIS handbook or any handbook for that matter, and frankly she never thought she'd find herself _needing_ that sort of instruction.

"So," Jenny said dully. "Why am I here?"

Diane lifted her shoulders.

"Don't ask me what your motives are," she said. "I don't know whether to laugh at you or respect you for showing your face to me," she added, and then curled her palm around her mug testily. "I don't know why _you_ agreed to this. I can only tell you why I asked."

Jenny leaned forward a little, nettled by the lofty speeches.

"Then quit beating around the bush," she said edgily.

Diane lifted her brows.

"I asked you here," she said coolly, "to warn you."

Jenny was completely taken aback. Her jaw nearly dropped open—but she was able to control it somewhat. She shook her head, her brows furrowing.

"To—warn?" she asked, stumbling over the words. She wrinkled her nose and her brow, her mouth moving sarcastically. "Warn me? Did you put a _hit_ on me?" she asked curtly, and then she laughed—because hadn't Diane just said she wasn't going to kill her?

Diane smirked.

"Murder by any means isn't my style," she remarked. "I find the idea of going to jail because my husband wasn't satisfied _window shopping_ distasteful."

Jenny looked away, appropriately bothered by the insult. She swallowed any bitchy retort and settled for picking up her coffee again, eyes on the black liquid—stay alert, stay calm, and don't make a scene; it was what they _both_ wanted.

"I'm warning you about him," Diane said, a sour look crossing her face. "You should stay away from him."

"Isn't it a little late for that?" Jenny asked brazenly.

Diane's eyes flashed. She leaned forward aggressively.

"I am not staking my territory, Miss Shepard, far from it. This is not his wife sitting here talking to you, this is one woman to another, but if you think you're going to throw your relationship with him in my face you'll do well to remember that _you_ are the one who spread your legs for a married man with _no_ regard for the people you would hurt," she lashed out coldly.

Jenny flushed slightly, unprepared for the barrage of stinging words. She resented the implication that she had given no thought to Diane—but she wasn't sure she should say anything, and because she was busy trying to process everything and get her feelings on it in order, she opened her mouth anyway:

"I'm not the one who was married," she defended herself callously.

"It doesn't _matter_," Diane snapped, her words hitting hard. "You could—you should have said no. Do you know how many cultures would stone you to death for your actions? You, the _unmarried_ one?" she asked sarcastically, her eyes never leaving Jenny's. "You had a choice, too, and you made the wrong one. You know it. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you think you're innocent?"

Jenny said nothing.

"I didn't think so," Diane said softly. She looked at Jenny in silence for a moment and then shifted, leaning on her elbow on the table. "I don't like you," she said callously. "It infuriates me that he cheated on me with _you_. I hope you are uncomfortable and I hope you can't sleep at night, but this isn't about _your_ affair with _my_ husband," Diane gestured between the two of them. "This is about what I wish Stacy had said to me."

Jenny froze, her eyes widening. Once again—she was taken aback, completely blindsided by Diane. She had really underestimated this woman, and she was starting to regret it. She was—regretting a lot of things.

"Did you know Stacy?"

"No."

Jenny took a sip of her coffee and raised an eyebrow; indicating silently that she was willing to listen, ready to listen. She crossed her legs and leaned forward on her elbows, her eyes narrowing, and she looked at Diane expectantly.

Diane cleared her throat, her eyes on her coffee for a moment.

"As much as I want to put all of the blame for this on you, I can't," she said bluntly. "You aren't a home wrecker, and don't dare get it in your head that you ruined my marriage," Diane said bitterly. "Don't get me wrong; you aren't _faultless_. But you didn't singlehandedly bring about our divorce. Our marriage was over before you, and I refused to admit it—so what does that tell you, Miss Shepard?"

Jenny said nothing; she didn't bite. She knew the question was mostly rhetorical, and she wasn't going to provoke Diane by answering.

"There's something wrong with Leroy," Diane said curtly. "He's the problem."

Jenny's mouth turned up involuntarily at the corner. Hadn't Decker said the same thing?

_He's a bad husband. He's messed up. _

Jenny curled her hands around her mug, soaking up the warmth idly.

"He neglected me," Diane said brutally. "He worked all the time, he doesn't communicate…he gets spooked by intimacy," she went on. "If you think he'll be different with you, he won't. If you think you can change it, or fix him, you're stupid; you can't," she spoke harshly, and Jenny appreciated it, though she said nothing. "He's the only one who can fix his problems and—" Diane paused, and a distasteful look crossed her eyes; she looked sad. "There's something you should know about Leroy."

Jenny took a drink of the coffee—letting it sting her throat. She was fairly sure she knew what Diane was about to "break" to her.

"He was married—"

"I know about Shannon," Jenny interrupted quietly.

She didn't know why she had to preempt Diane and say it, maybe it was because she had bristled at Diane calling her stupid and naïve, but the look on Diane's face made her regret interrupting at all. Diane looked like she'd been slapped; the colour drained from her face.

"What?" she asked shortly. "You—_what_?"

Jenny bit the inside of her lip. She realized she'd made a mistake.

"He told you about her?" Diane muttered, narrowing her eyes. "He—_voluntarily_?"

Jenny looked away. She sensed this was a sore subject—a tense, rocky area she shouldn't have trod into. Diane was silent, still staring at Jenny in a disconcerting way, as if she wasn't really seeing her. She was so infuriated that Leroy had shared that with—with this _woman_. She clenched her back teeth, and swallowed hard.

"He told you all of it? The whole story?"

"The whole-?"

"Kelly? He told you about _Kelly_?" Diane demanded, losing a little of her composure.

Her voice shook and Jenny's eyes snapped onto Diane's, suspicion and dread crossing her features. She shook her head a little, her mouth dry.

"Not another wife?" she asked grimly, and Diane laughed in a short, mirthless way.

She savored the moment, relishing in a horrible way that she was going to get to shatter Jenny's little world in which Gibbs was noble and honest. She shook her head.

"Kelly was his daughter," Diane said, her eyes hard. "She was killed with Shannon—she was eight."

Jenny's heart stopped. She parted her lips, forgetting how to breathe for a moment—a little girl? Jethro had a little girl? A dead little girl? She moved her head and shifted in horror, letting out a shaky breath. She lifted her hands to her mouth, fingertips pressing into her lips.

Almost to herself, she whispered:

"That explains it."

"What?" Diane asked sharply.

Jenny just closed her eyes, moved her hand to her forehead. It explained why he had been so stricken when he thought she was pregnant—it explained his suicidal thoughts, the reason he'd been so shattered by the little girl's brutal murder in the Halston case. It—really, it explained everything.

"What happened?" she asked hoarsely.

"They were witnesses to a crime, and they were murdered," Diane answered flatly. "While Leroy was in Kuwait."

Jenny squeezed her eyes shut. She felt like crying.

"He never got over it."

Jenny looked up abruptly, her eyes wide in disbelief.

"And you expect him to?" she asked passionately, her voice low. "You—you think he can just get over it? His whole family, _gone_?" she moved her head in shock, "Don't you understand what it means to lose the _only_ family you have?"

Diane was interested.

"Do you?" she asked, the words spilling out before she could think about it.

Jenny bit her lip and turned her face away, shoving her mouth into her knuckles. She just nodded silently, and Diane busied herself with her coffee, shaken by the turn the conversation had taken—Jenny had made her feel badly about expecting Leroy to move forward, and she hated that.

"He doesn't try to get over it," Diane said quietly. "_That's_ his curse. He doesn't know how to live without the misery. Without _them_. And he won't let anyone help him." Diane leaned forward, and she waited—and when Jenny didn't look at her, she grabbed her wrist and forced her to. "Are you listening to me? He won't let _anyone_ help him. Not me," she reinforced, "not you. If you aren't Shannon, you won't last."

Jenny bit her lip. She looked sharply at Diane's hand on her wrist, and Diane let go, pulling back, the iron curtain falling over her eyes again. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked down at her half-full coffee mug.

"He didn't tell me about it until I found her picture in his wallet. I thought I could help—_he doesn't want help_. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

Jenny grit her teeth. She stubbornly said nothing, and took a stoic drink of her coffee; Diane's eyes flashed in frustration and she went on.

"I am telling you he's poisonous," she said fiercely, flattening her palm on the table. "He'll—he's sweet, and caring, and charming, and he is a good man—sometimes—but he will drag you down; he'll make you crazy," Diane explained earnestly.

She leaned back in her chair heavily, shaking her head violently.

"I found out about you _two_, your affair, whatever this shit is—and I _hated_ you, I still hate you sometimes, but when you spent all night crying in that hospital room? That's when I knew you were in trouble, and as much as I don't give a damn if I ever see you again or if you're ever happy—no one deserves the pain I went through because of _him_," she choked out stiffly.

Jenny looked at Diane silently, listening. She admired the strength it took Diane to do this—she was almost in awe of it. What bothered her was that, in another world, she and Diane no doubt would have been friends—but as it stood, they were two redheads, one man, and an impossible outcome.

"He will make you fall in love with him," Diane asserted. "You won't even see it coming and then he will break—he will break your heart, and you won't see _that_ coming—and he won't say a goddamn _thing_," she paused, catching Jenny's eye harshly. "I'm warning you—don't fall in love with him. Don't let him do that to you—" Diane broke off.

She smiled at Jenny sardonically.

"Who the hell am I kidding?" she asked sourly. "You already did."

Jenny flinched; the words were as hard-hitting as a direct slap across the cheeks.

"You're a bitch," Diane insulted suddenly, and Jenny's eyes widened in shock.

"I—I'm a _bitch_? What did I do?" she asked viciously—even though it was a stupid question.

"You just had to fall in love with my husband," Diane snapped angrily. "And god knows how, but you made him fall in love with _you_," she spat. Diane took a deep breath and lifted her eyes away. "He was mine—Jenny," she said, finally using the woman's name. "He was _mine_."

"He's not in love with me," Jenny scoffed hoarsely.

Diane glared at her.

"You're an idiot _and_ a bitch."

"He hasn't told—"

"He _never_ will," Diane said coldly. "He can't say it. He doesn't even know how to feel it anymore. But he _is_."

Jenny leaned forward. She bowed her head. Her eyes stung and her throat burned and then she reached up and covered her mouth, swiping furiously at the upset and humiliated tears that clung to her eyelashes. She hoped Diane was satisfied—this was too much for her to handle.

Diane looked at her with pity, and shook her head.

"You should run," she advised, her voice hollow. "Don't let him ruin you."

Jenny wrinkled her nose, sniffing heavily, and she looked at Diane.

"You're wrong about one thing," she said shakily.

Diane cocked an eyebrow.

"I did it see it coming," she said gruesomely. "The—broken heart."

Diane picked up her coat and started to slip it on.

"Add that to your lists of triumphs then, honey," she said curtly. "I doubt it will make it hurt any less," and Diane stood up, settling into the coat, and picking up her bag. She didn't have anything else to say—she had done what she needed to do, and she saw no need for pleasant, fake goodbyes either.

Jenny tapped her nail on the edge of her cup, and she looked up at Jethro's wife.

"Diane," she said, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

She was. She was sorry that Diane had felt so much pain in all of this—because she had never, ever set out to sabotage Diane. Diane was innocent; a bystander, and Jenny was half-responsible for her suffering. She—couldn't put it into words, but she was grateful for this, this face-to-face—whatever it was.

Diane tilted her head, and smiled bitterly. As much as she did believe that Jenny was sorry, she just didn't care.

It didn't _matter_.

"Ah," she said dryly. "Now, I _know_ he taught you better than that," she admonished—and she turned her back, and walked out without another word.

For long time after Diane left, Jenny sat in the coffee shop, staring out the window with an empty mug, a heavy heart, and a choice to make.

Three days before the decision was due—she made it.

* * *

He couldn't place why, but the Director of NCIS felt as if he were looking at a very different Jenny Shepard as she stood in front of his desk on the Wednesday prior to Thanksgiving. He was half-tempted to ask if something was wrong, but he didn't think she'd tell him.

She said:

"I want the position in Los Angeles," she paused, and smiled inclining her head, "and I want to thank you for giving me the opportunity."

Morrow smiled, relieved she'd accepted it—he had really been counting on her taking it; it looked good for the agency, it reflected well on the gender quotas, his tenure, and her, and it made her look incredibly ambitious and credible. That, and he was starting to think there was something to the persistent rumor that she was having an affair with Gibbs, and he was wary of any lawsuits or personnel issues that could arise from _that_ going awry.

"You're secure in your decision?"

"Completely," Shepard said firmly, nodding for emphasis. "Frankly, I don't know what got into me not accepting it the moment you offered."

"Ah, well, good sense, I'd say," Morrow placated. "Putting thought into things never harmed anyone."

She seemed to hesitate.

"You mentioned that I'd follow Decker to LA in mid-January?"

Morrow nodded.

"Preferably, in the interest of staggering the paperwork and adjustment time for the LA office."

Jenny smiled reluctantly.

"I'd like to request to go with Agent Decker."

"In December?" Morrow asked, brows going up. He glanced at his calendar. "In—two weeks?"

She nodded curtly.

"Preferably."

He scrutinized her.

"Is there any particular reason?"

"Personal reasons," she answered mildly.

Morrow nodded—and to himself, he thought, _ah, then the rumors are true; and she wants out._ Well, then it was best to pack her off across the country before she and Gibbs combusted in the middle of the bullpen. He stood up, and reached his hand across the desk.

"I'll make the necessary calls," he agreed. "Congratulations, Agent Shepard."

"Thank you."

She smiled, and therein he realized what was different—she was colder.

* * *

Gibbs looked without seeing at the stencils laid out on his workbench—stencils for printing a name on the boat. It wasn't finished; he didn't care. This one wasn't therapeutic anymore. He was going to name it before its time—and _burn_ it.

Clean break; start over.

He held a mason jar of bourbon numbly in his hand, and listened to Diane storm around upstairs. She was getting the rest of her things—moving out. It was late, and he didn't know what she had been doing all day that put this off, but she was here now and he was staying out of her way.

He didn't bother to go see what she was taking; he didn't care. He had to face that she was going to get most everything in this divorce—he hardly had ground to stand on, and his lawyer was nothing up against Emma Pierce. He was tired of fighting, to put it bluntly. He didn't like surrender, but if he had his house, it didn't _matter_ that there was a mortgage on it to pay her off, or that half his paycheck was going to her every month, or that she had a hell of a lot of his savings and his grandfather's gold watch—all that mattered was this _house_.

She could leave, and he could be here in the basement, ignoring his recovery orders and drinking until he couldn't see, and when that didn't help—he could go to Jenny, and find respite.

He shuffled the stencils together and downed the rest of the bourbon in his jar, because he heard Diane's footsteps creaking on the basement stairs—she paused, and then she seemed to change her mind, and he decided to go up there and face her. It didn't do him much credit to skulk in the basement like the rat bastard he was.

The kitchen was so empty—he walked through it, and stood in the living room; that was empty too. His house was bare bones again, undecorated, untouched by a family living there, and he felt hollow because of it.

Keys jingled behind him and he turned. Diane put her hand on her hip, her knuckles white, and looked at him, standing at the foot of the stairs by the door. Streetlights glinted off the stained glass window in the door and shone into the room in a patterned prism.

She was dressed to kill; she must be going out tonight. He looked at her quietly, and didn't insult her saying anything. He knew it wasn't worth it, and he knew it wouldn't change anything. He had treated her badly and she was exacting revenge for that.

She pursed her lips, her head tilted, looking at him thoughtfully. She was moving into her new condominium, taking a week to breathe and let loose, and then she was taking personal time from work—Christmas and New Year's Eve in Seattle with her family, because she wanted to be happy this year.

She lifted her chin.

"Leroy," she said crisply. "You have any last words?"

He said nothing.

She smiled vaguely.

"It wouldn't mean anything, would it?" she asked, almost to herself. "Why start lying to ourselves now?"

She gripped her keys and walked towards him, her hand going into a little pocket in her small, fashionable clutch. She curled her fingers, and held her hand out, beckoning mildly for his with her other. He let her touch him, flatten his palm, and into his hand she dropped the sapphire earrings he'd given her on their wedding day—her something blue—her wedding band, and her engagement ring.

She held his hand in hers, looking at the items.

He pushed his hand towards her gently.

"Keep them, Diane," he said sincerely.

They were hers, and the sentiment behind them—even if it wasn't wholly the sentiment she wanted from him—was real.

She shook her head, and closed his fingers over the jewelry.

"I don't want them," she said quietly. "Blue—was your favorite colour on me. I don't want to wear it anymore. The rings," she paused, and shrugged, a bitter, sad look flickering in her face, "You destroyed everything they stand for, Leroy. Fidelity, trust—they mean nothing to me. You keep them," she insisted. "Penance," she reminded-she'd said it before.

She gave him a hollow little half-smirk.

"Give them to her. She doesn't seem to mind taking what belongs to others."

Diane took her hand away swiftly and looked away, straightening her shoulders, setting her jaw, and guarding her face. She swung her keys around her finger and turned, taking a few steps to the door in seductive high heels—and then she turned back, tight anger in her lips.

"I thought I hated her," she said. "I thought I hated her because she had something I don't, something you want. But I realized…I can't hate her," Diane paused. "Not like I should. It's a shallow, hurt hate, but it isn't real passion, real hatred," she looked at him intensely. "She fell in love with you—you made her fall in love with you—like _I_ fell in love with you. It's your fault."

She looked like she was going to say more, but she didn't. Her eyes got hard again.

"I deserved better than what you gave me. I deserve better than you," she said fiercely, and she looked to be struggling, and then bit her lip, and forced out the next words with mature, grudging acceptance, "and so—so does _she_."

She left quickly, and he stared after her; he didn't even flinch when the door slammed, and the last of her anger and her hurt echoed through his house, the last thing of her left—the sound of the door slamming.

He went to the couch and sat down, tightness in his chest. He looked at the objects in his hands, touching them reverently—her earrings, her engagement ring. He pictured her face when he proposed, and then clenched his fist, and pressed his knuckles to his head.

He stretched out on the couch, his hand on his forehead, straining to hear Shannon's voice.

The house was empty, silent. The bedroom was empty again; he could sleep there, alone, his hand perpetually thrown where Shannon's hip used to always be.

But he didn't. From that point on, he slept on the couch, where Diane had banished him.

He wanted nothing to do with the bed.

* * *

She lay in bed next to him, breathing lightly, her head buried in the groove between the pillows and his shoulder, and they both knew something was _wrong_; He—he could feel it in his gut, and see it in her eyes, and she—well, she had the facts.

His fingers threaded absently through her red hair and she shifted closer to him, biding her time. She didn't want to break the spell of the silent, peaceful moment, even if there was turmoil below the surface. Once this magic was dissolved, there was no going back so she asked—for just a few more moments.

With the advice of others spinning in her head—Burley, with his _break his heart first_, and Decker, with his _he'll break you_ and Diane, with _everything_ Diane had said—she had agonized over what to do, how to tell him—how to leave. She had entertained the idea of mentioning it in the bullpen, but the thought was too cruel and cold; she didn't trust herself to keep calm. She had sat at the desk in her study and written a letter—an entire letter, bleeding soul onto paper (she was so good with the written word) and then she had balked at the cowardice of it, and locked it in a drawer far away—ah, but the letter had cleared her head.

She wouldn't be the coward who left him a Dear John, but she found, in writing it, the strength—or at least the resolve—to face him and _tell him_.

She just wanted to savor a few unstressed moments with him before she did.

This was a lull in the chaos of it all, and she deserved to appreciate it.

She lifted her head and shifted closer again, leaning over him, finding his lips with hers for a slow, lingering kiss. Her fingers rested lightly on his gunshot wound, and his hands were on her neck, feeling her pulse, holding her head.

Jenny tilted her head back, ran her hand up his chest. She touched his brow; only the faintest hint of what had been a seven iron shaped, very _ugly_ split-temple, bruised injury remained. It had healed nicely, but it made her think of all the bloodshed—literal and figurative—that defined their relationship.

He looked at her curiously and she seemed provoked out of a reverie, and she focused on him, swallowing hard.

"We're going to end in violence," she said ominously—prophetically.

She was breaking this off here, now; but she didn't think this was the last time their paths would cross.

His jaw tightened; brow furrowed in consternation.

"I wouldn't hurt you, Jen," he said gruffly.

She moved her hand.

"It's not what I meant," she placated. She knew he wouldn't lay a hand on her; she didn't know how to articulate what she meant; the premonition she felt.

She meant—she wasn't sure they could ever survive each other, ever be happy, after the way they had started, and in light of so much of the carnage in their pasts. She thought peace for their relationship would come when one of them was dead.

"I mean, there will be blood," she said, and turned onto her back, looking up at the ceiling. She raised her leg and ran her hand over her knee in agitation; she felt him turn his head and scrutinize her tensely.

Sometimes, he didn't understand Jenny.

She took a deep breath and opened her mouth, and then froze. She rubbed her knee again, and sat up, twisting towards him, pulling her legs up. Her hair fell over one shoulder, save for the wisps in her face, and she gave him a hard look.

"The Director offered me a promotion," she said bluntly.

She narrowed her eyes, and watched him process the statement, his blue eyes flickering with impressed pride, and then curiosity, and a little skepticism. He arched his brow.

She was a probationary agent, hadn't even been with NCIS a year—it was unheard of, rare, out of left field—and he was shocked.

He nodded, and shrugged.

"You're a good agent, Jen," he said frankly. "Agent Afloat?" he asked vaguely. "Norfolk?"

She shook her head.

"No, Jethro," she said. "Los Angeles. He offered me a place with Decker."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes, alert suddenly. He knew Decker was leaving for LA, that had been in place for months—and now he was wondering how long Jenny had known about this offer, how long she had entertained the idea—and why she was bringing it up now.

"Black ops?" Gibbs asked gruffly.

She lifted one shoulder.

"It's what I joined NCIS for," she answered softly.

She set her jaw, clenching her back teeth together. She could see the flicker of understanding in his eyes, and reflected in the defensive tensing of his muscles. He was perceptive; he knew what she was going to do. He reached up and rubbed his jaw.

"You don't want LA," he said, as if trying to put the thought in her head.

She steeled herself.

"I accepted the promotion, Jethro," she said, delivering the blow firmly—like ripping off a Band-Aid, or setting a broken bone; quick, and as painless as possible.

He stared at her—said nothing.

"_Jen_."

"Morrow chose my replacement. He starts in January," she went on, moving her eyes away a little—so she wasn't really looking at him. "Name's Brent Langer."

"He isn't _you_, Jen!" Gibbs growled angrily.

Her lip trembled and she bit it sharply, lowering her lashes. Tears sprung to her eyes—it was harder than she'd anticipated, so much harder. She hadn't thought he'd respond with _vehemence_ of all things—he was Gibbs; he was supposed to be a rock!

"It wasn't an easy decision," she choked out hoarsely.

He sat up and rubbed his jaw again tensely, muscles standing out harshly against his skin.

What did she need from him—what did she want? He couldn't—_give_ if he didn't _know_—and then, he wasn't so sure he could give anyway. She hadn't given any indication of this, of leaving—he'd thought he had _her_. He _wanted_ her to be _here_.

"You didn't say anything," he accused.

He didn't mean to sound so aggressive, but that's how it came out, and the wounded look in her face—like he'd backed her into a corner—made him regret his words.

"It was my decision," she said edgily, snapping at him. "It was my decision and—you were married, and it was what I worked for, what I wanted and you—are _you-!"_

"I'm not married anymore," he said.

Things weren't official, but his marriage was dissolved in all but legal terms; it was no longer an obstacle.

"That doesn't scratch the surface of what's wrong with us—"

"Things change, Jen!"

"What's going to change?" she demanded, raising her voice. "You get divorced, we keep sleeping together, we fuck up a case because we're too focused on protecting the other—I get pregnant, you get killed, we break up and can't work together? What _changes_? We start _talking_ to each other? You—_marry_ me?" she laughed in angry, hurt disbelief, tears welling up sharply in her green eyes.

He clenched his teeth, effectively silenced by her words.

She raised her hand to her mouth and pressed the back of her palm against her lips.

"You're in the middle of a divorce," she said, lowering her voice, looking at him earnestly. "You can't jump from her bed—into mine—" Jenny broke off with a disbelieving laugh. "You already tried bed-hopping and look what a disaster this is—we're going to crash and burn, Jethro and I—" she paused, turning her head away and raising her eyes to the ceiling.

"I think I'm in over my head with you," she admitted hoarsely, "and I—don't think I can handle this."

She had resolved not to tell him about her conversation with Diane; it was something that felt private and secure—untouchable by him. She also refused to confront him about his first wife and his little girl; she was afraid of his reaction, afraid he might push her back to talk about her father, and she was too blindsided by it to have the conversation with him.

He tore his eyes away from her and looked straight ahead, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He struggled for something to say—but somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he knew there was nothing he could say to change this, whether it was because she had already made up her mind, or because he simply wasn't capable of giving her what she needed.

"It's a—it's a good opportunity for me, for my career," she said, her voice shaking, "I need to go. I need to figure some things out," she tried to explain, clearing her throat. "This happened so fast, and I made choices I'm not proud of, and I hurt people, I hurt your wife, and it's because you get—under my skin, and you get in my head," Jenny bit her lip, looking over at him hesitantly.

He still wasn't looking at her; she licked her bottom lip.

"I've been very naïve," she admitted dejectedly. "I need to be alone, Jethro, I want the promotion, I haven't been in a relationship—a serious one—ever and I don't think this is the right," she took a deep breath, "way to start?"

She thought she was doing okay—getting her side out there, making him understand as best she could why she was doing this. She knew it was hard, and she knew it was bad for him; he'd lost his wife, and when he lost her, he was going to be alone. Armed with the knowledge of Shannon and Kelly, she _knew_ she was leaving him with nothing, but she had no indication of his feelings or of what he wanted.

She wasn't stupid; she did know he cared for her—and she wasn't the girl who necessarily needed to hear it; not right now. The fact of the matter was, she couldn't wait around and suddenly become that girl—a scared, insecure woman desperate for a word from him; she didn't want to _be_ Diane someday—didn't want to watch him take up with a new Jenny Shepard.

"Jethro," she said, her voice raw. "Look at me."

He didn't, but his jaw moved, his muscles twitched.

"I'm trying to be honest with you," she burst out desperately. "I'm trying to put some transparency into this affair—Jethro, what would you have done if I just _left_, with no warning? If you woke up and I was _gone_?" she demanded.

He did look at her now, his face hard.

"I'd be pissed," he said bluntly. "Make it easier."

Her lips parted in shock, and tears spilled down her cheeks. In a cruel way—it made sense. It made it sound like he didn't care, but it made sense. Anger was less painful to cling to than heartbreak. In a moment, she understood why Diane wanted to utilize the anger she felt; anger was easy to manipulate, anger inspired and strengthened. It was power; it didn't leave a person feeling weak.

Anger was a smokescreen to hold fast to until one was ready to really deal with pain.

"I don't _want_ to leave you, Jethro," she said, a catch in her voice. Her chest heaved, and he moved towards her suddenly, grabbing her shoulder, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her towards him tightly.

"Don't," he said gruffly, his lips moving against hers.

"I have to."

"Don't," he repeated possessively. "Stay," he ordered.

She shook her head, drawn into kissing him, standing her ground logically while she gave into him physically.

"I'm taking the promotion," she said firmly—and his lips trailed down her throat, teeth scraping her skin.

She moaned, grasping his shoulders and pulling him down on top of her. She wrapped her legs around his, tangling them up tightly and closely in sheets, and they mutually dispensed with words, going at each other violently—with desperation, with the same reckless, passionate, lustful abandon that had gripped them unapologetically in Maryland.

It was simultaneously detached sex and _blazing_ intimacy; she felt like crying as much as she did screaming—though she discreetly wiped the tears from her eyes with a sweaty wrist—and she seemed to feel everything she could humanly feel while they touched and kissed and _fucked._

But it wasn't about _that_ this time, of all the countless times they had been together, this was so real and so raw; it wasn't about carnal satisfaction, senseless pleasure; it was closeness rather than climax—though there was more than enough of that, too—and she was aggressively telling him what she refused to put into words, and what he couldn't put into words.

She was relieved; a weight off her shoulders. This was goodbye, and it was a good one, rampant with sweat, dizziness, desire—the stuff dreams, nightmares, and everything in-between was _made_ of.

There was no wife hanging over their heads, no veil of secrecy, no ticking time bomb—just them, with one night left. They didn't rest, didn't sleep, hardly caught their breaths all night, until she had to stop or she thought she'd kill him—with that still-healing gunshot wound—and his muscles were hurting, and her chest was so tight she couldn't breathe.

She clung tightly to his side, her head buried in his chest, savoring the feel of his arms holding her too close, reveling for a moment in the quiet triumph that was him, him, begging her to stay; it made her feel less pathetic—it made her feel like she hadn't trampled all over a good woman's territory and reddened her ledger with sin for nothing.

She slept fitfully, tensely, tangled up in him, letting him run his hands over her, tangle fingers in her hair, kiss her, she slept with him—and she dreaded daylight.

* * *

He hadn't realized when she said she was leaving—she meant _she was leaving_. He was going to work, and she wasn't; she was taking personal days, packing her things, and on Tuesday, she would be on a plane with Decker and he would be here.

Here, in DC, in that empty house, left to face his sins and think about his actions and try to find some absolution, some comfort.

She stood in front of him, her hair braided messily down one shoulder, arms folded protectively around herself. Her green eyes were alert, bright, brought out by the muted earthy green of one of his old Marine t-shirts. Her legs went on for miles; she wore only panties beneath the shirt. She was a sight—a sight for his sore eyes, someone he didn't want to forget.

He leaned his head back; his back heavy against the door, hot sun beating through the glass onto his neck. It was cold outside, but the sun was hot. He was late for work. He didn't care; he had barely been able to drag himself out of her bed, though he'd been careful to show no emotion—let not an inkling of weakness present itself.

There would be time for that later, time to drink her away later.

He lifted his head and reached forward; pulling her towards him, arm around her waist. He touched her lips with his thumb, lowered his mouth to hers.

"Don't go," he said gruffly.

"Don't," she said back, letting her mouth linger, a light, hesitant kiss. "Don't make this difficult, Jethro."

_It is difficult_, she thought.

He touched her face, knuckles brushing her cheek, fingers brushing wisps of her tangled red hair.

He was kissing her again, pulling her close, trying to silently convince her—making her balance that line again. She was firm in her resolve though; Shepard's head had locked Jenny's heart away for now.

"Jen," he murmured into her mouth.

"I have to do what's right for me," she said curtly.

She pushed at him gently, coaxing him _away,_ reaching behind him to grasp the doorknob. He resisted her, relishing the last moment of her body against his, her skin under his hand, the way her lips pursed, her eyes, her nose, her hair.

He moved his head, eyes bitter, and then hollow, jaw tightening.

"I can't make you stay," he growled, a tepid mixture of disbelief, resignation, anger.

He meant, _there's nothing I can say to change your mind, is there?_

She shook her head; her lip trembled and she bit it quickly. She wasn't going to cry—this was not going to end with her tears.

"I trust you with my life, Jethro," Jenny said. She shrugged heavily, pressing her hand into his side, over his wound. "I can't trust you with my heart."

He wasn't in a place to hold her heart without crushing it; his hands were too eager for something to break in his anger and his confusion over the tragedy and loss in his past—his hands weren't gentle enough yet.

She tilted her head. He gave her one of his glares, a good hard look with coldness and hollowness where there was usually something else—and she almost told him she loved him. She almost let him hear it, but she bit the words back, and the control it took shook her and she covered her mouth sharply.

He thought about refusing to take no for an answer—but he saw how much she was hurting, and he backed off. If this was what she wanted…this was what she could have.

She said she was naïve, but there was something sage in her for doing this—something he was too blind with grief to see.

He moved her hand from the doorknob and left, without a word, without looking back.

She slammed the door heavily, nearly throwing herself into it, and she drove her fist into it, crying out with the pain that shot through her knuckles, up her wrist, and straight to her soul. She gasped as if drawing her last breath and burst into tears, surrendered to sobbing—she cried hard, until she couldn't cry anymore.

It was over.

* * *

Burley made her smile at the airport—he saw them off; he gave her his hat, and in the hat, he put one of the stupid photos of her in the dunce cap, autographed by him, as if he was some famous movie star. She smiled, but she was quiet and resigned, focused. It hardly felt like the Christmas season; it hardly felt like the past year had happened.

Decker let her be. He had been taken aback to find out she was going with him instead of following later, but he seemed satisfied with the turn of events—pleased.

She tried not to think of Jethro.

She was tense when the plane took off, her face a little pale, her hands clenched, her eyes closed. She seemed to relax when they were in the air—flying away, putting DC behind them; Los Angeles and her promotion was on the horizon.

_It was over. _

A soft touch on her hand—and she opened her eyes. Decker pressed his palm against her firmly, wordlessly comforting her, and she smiled at him, letting out a deep breath. He removed his hand just as smoothly, holding up his finger for the flight attendant—for a drink.

She turned and looked out the window, resting her temple on the side of the plane.

She closed heavy eyes; exhausted.

She woke up in Los Angeles, and it was sunny.

* * *

The day Jenny flew to LA, Leroy Jethro Gibbs met Abby Sciuto.

She took him by surprise; so different was she from her predecessor. She was optimistic, eager, and smart—she shined. She distracted him, someone bright, a puzzle to figure out; amusement: spontaneity and liveliness, where the bullpen was lackluster since Decker and Jenny had—gone.

She was childlike, efficient, and warm. She danced over to him, and she _hugged_ him.

"Oh, wow," she said perceptively, and looked him in the eyes without fear. "Oh, you need someone to smile at you."

She smiled, brilliantly. She was full of _light_.

He lost his way looking for Shannon; he was going to kill himself looking for Shannon, so for a moment—he stopped, and he looked for Kelly, instead.

He would never find her, and he still couldn't face the loss, but he could kid himself.

-and Abby Sciuto wasn't on a plane to Los Angeles.

Abby Sciuto _didn't hurt._

**THE END. **

* * *

References: _Queen of the Damned,_ NCIS Season 6 Episodes _"Legend Parts 1&2"_, NCIS Season 5 Episode _"Internal Affairs"_, NCIS Season 5 Episode _"Lost and Found"_, NCIS Season 5 Episodes _"Judgment Day Parts 1&2"_, NCIS Season 2 Episode _"Minimum Security"_, NCIS Season 3 Episodes _"Kill Ari Parts 1&2"_, NCIS Season 3 Episode _"Under Covers"_, NCIS Season 8 Episode _"Enemies Domestic_", _The Avengers_, The Roman Empire, NCIS Season 6 Episode "_Last Man Standing_", NCIS Season 1 Episode "(couldn't place episode)" (Tony and Abby make Kate wear a stupid hat).

**Let me take a moment to thank my Beta, Mila (Miss Mila): **She is phenomenal, and her work is pricelessly helpful. I appreciate every beta I've used, but she is unique in that she is incredibly interactive and wholly involved when I work with her-she is basically my other half. She is a vital part of my writing process. She got me out of many tight plot spots in this story. I would recommend her, but she's mine; I'm selfish, and I don't want you stealing away her precious time-so I'll just recommend you read her beautiful writing, and thank her for her help.

_-There will be an epilogue; in it I won't list the references, as I think most Jibbs fans will find them painstakingly obvious.  
Feedback: appreciated.  
It's been real, ladies and gentlemen.  
-Alexandra  
xoxo_


	18. Epilogue

_"I had my heart set on you  
__but nothing else hurts like you do."  
__-Christina Aguilera/Blake Shelton; 'Just a Fool' [Playlist]_

* * *

_"...the madness in me is brought out in the presence of you."_

_-Alanis Morissette; 'Madness' [Playlist]_

* * *

_San Diego; 1999_

"Hey. That's my Danish."

Gibbs fixed a glare on the unfamiliar man who had just slammed a fist onto his breakfast. He didn't take kindly to people abusing his breakfast; cheese Danishes were about the only good things in his life these days.

"What is your problem, man?"

The guy stepped back, holding up his hands.

"It's my bad," he said gruffly. He felt for change or cash, and came up short. "I'll get you back for that."

"Yeah, you will," Gibbs agreed pointedly, sizing the guy up intently.

McAlister inclined his head, unfazed, still peeling that damn apple he'd been working on since he asked Gibbs to come in for a meeting.

"Gibbs, Leon. Leon, Gibbs," he introduced vaguely—without looking up.

_Leon_ nodded.

"I'll remember," he promised.

"Me too," Gibbs said, giving him one last hard look before brushing past to re-take his seat.

Leon stormed out, slamming the door behind him, and Gibbs leaned forward darkly, examining his abused Danish. McAlister still peeled his apple methodically, coming off like an eccentric Bond villain.

"Where were we?" McAlister asked mildly, eyes on the fruit.

Gibbs shrugged. He sat down, uninterested.

"Some assignment, in Paris," he answered.

He didn't know what he was doing in San Diego. He hated California. It reminded him of ninety-one, Mike Franks, the Reynosas. Morrow sent Burley on his Agent Afloat rotation, and ordered Gibbs to San Diego for a transfer to Europe—and Gibbs followed orders.

"Decker's on point," McAlister said, looking up. His hands paused. "I want you in on it."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. He picked up the Danish. He knew Decker, liked working with him. Wouldn't mind doing it again. If Decker were on point here, it made sense Morrow would put them together. Gibbs nodded, taking a bite.

McAlister shifted.

"You ever work with Jenny Shepard?" he asked.

It was only years of practice in remaining levelheaded in war that allowed him to continue chewing as if McAlister hadn't just chucked a grenade into his lap. Had he ever—McAlister didn't _know_ who had trained Jenny Shepard? It was possible for anyone at NCIS not to _know_?

Gibbs looked away from McAlister, taken aback, completely blindsided by the question—so she was still with Decker, and she was in San Diego now—hadn't she left him for Los Angeles?

McAlister was waiting.

Gibbs didn't want to get into it.

Without thinking, without meaning to, he shook his head—_no_.

McAlister started talking in his bored drawl:

"She's young, been in San Diego prepping for this about six months…"

Gibbs wasn't listening.

* * *

_San Diego, 1999_

Two years has passed since their affair; he couldn't begin to imagine what would happen when they were face to face again—what they'd say to each other. He was spared tenseness or anger, though he was unsure if that was good, because when it happened—they weren't alone.

He walked out back to the courtyard that sprawled behind the San Diego field office—it was six days to Europe and he hadn't run across her yet—and she was leaning against a fence watching new recruits fire targets, carrying on a lazy conversation with the same _Leon_ who had taken a fist to his cheese Danish.

It must have been her day off—or maybe she had been undercover—she was dressed casually, beach-appropriate; she had platform sandals on but she was armed openly, gun tucked in a holster slung over her hip.

"Hey, Gibbs!" Decker barked, grinning wryly.

He strolled over from a table and clapped his old Boss on the back. Gibbs shook his hand—but he was looking at her, when she turned around at the words, and met his eyes.

Her hair was different. A little shorter, with bangs sweeping across her forehead. It was braided, like it had been—he remembered—the day she said goodbye. Her lipstick was red, familiar red. Her face was unreadable for a moment, her body still, and then she smiled, straightened up, and turned around.

She arched an eyebrow.

"Hey Boss," she greeted mildly, no indication of anything more than cordial friendship. "How's Steve?"

"Seasick," Gibbs grunted.

Decker laughed, stepping back.

"You ready for this?" he asked, nudging Gibbs. "Read somethin' about Columbia in Franks' old stuff, told McAlister I needed you," he explained.

Jenny pursed her lips and glared at Decker lightly.

"Will likes his little practical jokes on me," she quipped.

He hadn't told her Gibbs was assigned to this operation until yesterday, and, collected as she was on the outside, she was still trying to get ahold of herself on the inside. She bit her lip; Gibbs was looking at her awfully intensely—that same way he used to look at her, when he could read her mind.

She tilted her head back, gesturing gracefully behind her.

"You met Vance?" she asked flippantly.

Gibbs nodded, breaking his eye contact with Jenny to nod at him.

"Leon," he greeted, and pointed at him seriously. "Two dollars, forty two cents," he said.

Leon Vance nodded, and Gibbs ignored the amused, interested look Decker was giving him in favor of looking back at Jenny. She didn't seem surprised by the little exchange; she was accustomed to Gibbs and how he worked.

Decker moved past, striking up conversation with Vance, going on about _The Russian_ and a few more exercises and briefings before they embarked—Jenny stepped closer, crossing her arms across her middle, and tilted her head up, meeting Gibbs' eyes.

She broke the silence first.

"You still building that boat?"

"Nah, started over."

"Yeah?" she asked, brows lifting coolly. "Why's that?"

"Burned the other one," he answered brusquely.

Jenny pursed her lips. It seemed like a silly thing to do, after all of that hard work—she smirked; it clicked.

"You named it after Her, didn't you?" she asked wryly—the infamous pronoun again.

His look said it all, and she lifted a shoulder smartly.

"You could've sold it."

"And watch some other guy sail off on her?"

She laughed starkly.

"You didn't care _who_ sailed off on Diane," she remarked carelessly, the other woman's name unfamiliar on her lips, dangerous, and loaded with history. She cocked her pristine brow again.

"Agency scuttlebutt says Fornell _did_," she added slyly—Tobias _had_ married Gibbs' ex-wife, Decker said, and if word on the grapevine was true, there was still a shotgun ringing in his ears.

He just tilted his head at her, and narrowed his eyes, glaring at her mildly; intently. It was surreal; he thought it would hurt more. He could see she thought it would hurt more, too—and maybe it did, maybe they were too stunned; they weren't feeling it.

They weren't alone; they were facing working together in close quarters in Europe, and they'd had no time to steel themselves. Perhaps this was shallow—under the surface, everything still boiled, just like it always had.

She flicked her eyes down to his left hand.

"So, Jethro," she asked smoothly. "How's your French?"

She was asking, _can we do this?_

He shrugged.

"Need a translator," he answered gruffly, deadpan.

She wrinkled her nose, her teeth flashing, a racy, tempting comment on the tip of her tongue—but she held it back; _professional_, she reminded herself.

She set their rapport, just like that—with confidence; she was collected, with a hint of flirtation, guarded but raw, and he realized they were still as volatile as they had been back in ninety-seven, and the line they would walk in in Europe—was very thin.

* * *

_Paris, 1999_

If there was any line at all.

They were based in Paris, but their operation necessitated a good amount of traveling—long nights, grueling stakeouts, stealth, violence, and the impeccable spy work required in between. It was six weeks of investigative work, detailed planning, moratoriums on mistakes and constant vigilance in the heart of Paris, where they learned their mission—tracking, infiltrating, and thwarting this arms ring that had snaked poisonously throughout Eastern Europe since the fall of the Soviet Union; it was a follow up on Vance's Operation Trident, a swan song of striking, deadly precision to draw out the ring-leader and take him down.

It was deep cover identities and a black language riddled with code words and he was _floored_ by how talented Jenny was in all of this. He had military stealth beaten into him, and a sniper's skill laced into his bones, but she was a natural—elite, elusive, ahead of the game, political, sharp.

It was no wonder they'd wanted her here.

* * *

_Positano, 1999_

He thought they kept it professional an impressive length of time before the line blurred—working with her was seductive, their affair in DC was interwoven into every conversation they had, into the very sinew of their synced working relationship—it was on a gun run they were interfering with in Positano, in Italy, that they broke the reigns holding them both _back—almost._

It was an almost mishap, a close-call in the execution of their sting, that left Decker chasing down one ex-Kremlin agent to prevent a leak, Jenny in hand-to-hand combat with someone twice her size that ended with her knife in his throat, her lip busted, her wrist broken, and Gibbs swearing mildly about a bullet graze that had taken a chunk off of his right shoulder.

And back at the safe house, she had the _gall_—she couldn't help it—to _mock_ him, while he helped set her wrist and she held her breath and braced her foot against his thigh, her nails digging into his hand as he crudely fixed her injury—she _mocked_ him, recalling his gunshot wound in DC, reminding him that he hadn't been able to get her up her stairs, could barely pace himself, primly going on about the bruise that had plagued her for the next week—

-until she realized he was looking at her with smoldering eyes, and she was _just_ talking because she knew if she stopped things would take a turn for the x-rated, and she wasn't sure she could take it, she'd been doing so well holding him off, balancing on the cliff-!

He stood up, as if to take a step back, and she was the one who stood up quickly after him and lunged for his shoulder, her hand going over the mild bullet graze, turning her head up to meet his lips when they came crashing down, and it was heated and infused with the sea-breezy summer of Italy—it was nostalgic, exciting, unburdened with everything that had weighed them down in DC—and it would have gone further than urgent touches and hard kissing if Decker hadn't stormed in, sweaty from a fight, and ignored the scene he walked in on but to ominously say:

"No one's getting laid, or everyone's getting laid, so pick one, Jenny," and disappeared upstairs to shower off the blood.

She was spooked, she stumbled back, and sat down, looking up at Gibbs—and the look in her eye had him wondering if Decker had something to do with her leaving. She touched her lips, and then smirked at him, and cocked an eyebrow.

There was something distinctly different to the kiss—she picked up on it, and it was lightness, the absence of guilt and darkness, a sort of clean slate; Europe was fair playing ground.

* * *

_Marseille, 1999_

Positano blurred the line; their second night on a brutal stakeout in Marseille _obliterated_ it.

She hadn't even tried to lie to herself—she knew what was going to happen the moment Decker told them they were on their own and returned to Paris to map out the next move; she didn't try to stop it because she _wanted_ it, as _much_ as he did.

It reminded her of when they had done this in Maryland—but he wasn't married now, he was free to do whatever the hell he wanted, and that was her, and she was game. She hadn't ever stopped loving him, even with all of the work and distractions in California, and in the cleanliness that characterized the advent of the relationship this time, she somehow managed to forget Diane's warnings, and the reasons it would be impossible to be with him.

In DC they had an affair, now it was a fling—and she _foolishly_ told herself they could keep it light this time, devouring each other in a hot attic, in August, in France—getting naked and getting sweaty just to cool off and chase the breathlessness and the pleasure they both missed.

"You wanna tell Decker?" Gibbs asked against her lips, somewhere between sweltering afternoon and muggy night on the fourth day in Marseille, his chest pressing into hers, hand on her thigh, knees on either side of her hips.

She laughed, tilting her head back, her skin flushed.

"He's the one who locked us in a room _alone_."

"Think he saw it comin'?"

He moved against her and she moaned.

"Jethro, it's like he painted_ fuck me_ on my forehead."

Gibbs grinned, and she pulled him closer, laughing into his lips, digging her claws into this exhilaration—the lack of guilt that put the heady _rush_ in _this time around_. She wrapped her legs around his waist, flipped them over, let her hair fall over her shoulders into his face.

"Fuck me again," she murmured into his lips, her heartbeat crashing against his.

She stumbled stupidly into the same trap, thinking they could hold if off at just sex, telling herself brashly that she could forget the depth of her feeling for him, keep a weather eye on the horizon of her shining career, and have him in her bed and under her skin at the same time.

* * *

_Serbia/Paris, 1999_

A colossal triumph that started in Paris and ended in the heart of Stalingrad meant they had to lie low and regroup—Decker put them in Serbia, in contact with the Los Angeles office's Agent Callan, to debrief for the next move, and it was a damn _free for all_, three weeks in a secluded farmhouse with literally nothing to do but relive every sexually charged moment of their history—and relive it openly, without subterfuge, with no one to watch, and no one to judge.

She tried to shake the notion that this was too good; it was too light, and it was because they were ignoring the issues that were starting to creep back into their relationship; his resentment of her for abandoning him when he needed her, her refusal to discuss her father, the coldness that defined her ambition and talent.

She was a much more mature woman in Europe; she had grown up, she had found her footing and her niche at NCIS; she butted heads with him more than ever before, the least experienced of the group but the one who took the most risks, who thought the furthest out of the box.

She had been responsible for the success in Stalingrad that earned them a break in Serbia; she got a little laid back, caught up in being a woman for a while, alone with Jethro in the rural backyard of the Balkans, and when they were back in Paris, still catching their breath from the passion that derailed their professionalism outside of Belgrade, she fucked up—she shot a cop she mistook for an arms dealer.

Decker almost had to nix the entire operation; Gibbs covered for her—and it was so _like_ the hostage situation he'd had her back on in DC, right down to the Eastern European influence, that she was shaken and the levity was sucked out of their fling; Gibbs was there again, supporting her when Decker lashed out and ripped her a new one, and Gibbs took control of her-he snapped at her and backed her up, but took Decker's side-and harshly nipped her arrogance in the bud when they had to prematurely kick start an operation in the Czech Republic lest the framework of the Paris endgame collapsed.

"This is wrong," Jenny insisted violently, fighting with Decker in the corridor, "this is wrong—I have a _bad_ feeling, Will—"

The synergy Deck and Jenny had baffled Gibbs; they worked together immaculately, but they argued as if they were trained to do it; the both of them were so well versed in semantics and circumlocution and black ops that it _frustrated_ Gibbs to no end.

_"You're_ the reason we have to move _now,_ J," Decker fired back firmly, cutting her off. "Borisov is going to recognize you—take him _out_ when he does!"

* * *

_Prague, 1999_

Camped in the seediest quarter of town Prague offered, they were on the verge of executing the final play before they could move towards the entire point of the original operation—assassination.

She had a stressed, terrified look on her face and she stormed away toward her mark; she _knew_ her fuck up on the Champs-Elysees was why they were half-way to blown covers and why they had to take this step _now,_ but she was sick to her stomach with a gut feeling—if _Gibbs_ was on point, _he_ would listen to her.

She took her position in the bar where their targets were, and it was hours later when she tracked them through the streets of Prague, trusting that Decker and Gibbs had her back—completely unaware that they had both been side-tracked by an unexpected run in with Interpol.

She was alone when the Russians made her, and later, she could never remember how she got out alive—she did page both of her partners before she went down in a scuffle with the last man standing and came out with the knowledge that a nearly point blank gunshot wound to the thigh was something she never wanted to experience again.

* * *

_Prague, 1999_

Gibbs got to the scene first—before any bystanders could, and he hit his knees on the cobblestones next to Jenny, his cell phone in his hand in an instant, barking orders, demanding Decker get the car instead of coming to assist.

"Be quiet," he said, shoving his palm against her lips. "Be quiet, Jen," he ordered hoarsely, disguising the panic in his tone.

She thrashed in agony, only hurting herself, and he tried to hold her down, keep her quiet, and stem the blood flow—there was a lot of blood. He swore in relief at the squealing of Decker's tires and picked her up, carrying her to the car, grunting at Decker in thanks when he got the back door open for him.

"Give me your knife," he said, letting go of Jenny's mouth.

"Where the hell is—don't you follow your own _rules_, Gibbs?" Decker shouted, anxiously glancing back and forth between Shepard and the road. "Jesus _fucking_ Christ, is she okay?"

He ignored a speed bump, and Jenny screamed, twisting violently as if to get away from the pain, digging her nails into Gibbs' arms. She was sobbing, murmuring incomprehensibly.

"Where's she hit?"

"Thigh," Gibbs answered, taking to her jeans with the knife and cutting them up, trying to get to the wound and get enough material for a tourniquet. "She needs a hospital."

"Can't do it."

"Take her to a goddamn hospital!" Gibbs barked.

He pulled Jenny towards him and wrapped his arm around her, wedging his thumb in her mouth. She fought him—she knew he was going to tie the tourniquet around her leg and it was going to hurt, and he pressed his lips to her temple and shushed her tensely. She gasped, breathless from crying.

"Jen," he snapped, shaking her. "Stay with me."

He looked up sharply, and Decker glanced back again, his face pale. He made a quick, executive decision—a left turn, for a hospital.

Her face was white as a sheet, and Gibbs was strangled with fear; this was something he had never experienced, a woman he felt this fiercely for bleeding out, struggling with death in his lap.

"Gibbs!" demanded Decker.

"She's unconscious," he updated.

He shook her again.

"Jen," he barked loudly. He ran his thumb over her lips. "_Jen_!"

* * *

_Paris, 1999_

She survived Prague; the round to the thigh put the darkness back in their relationship.

He was reminded of the loss of Shannon; he was reminded that Jenny had left him before. She was changed by the event—scarred in the way that all agents were after their first bullet-inflicted brush with death.

The operation became more invested, meticulous; there was no more time for sneaking off to the Parisian markets, or breaking for dinner at the Eiffel tower; it was work, and it started to feel very much like their last month in DC. Her injury was bad; his touch was the only one she could tolerate near the wound, and time was not on their side.

In the midst of a deep cover mission, she anchored her reality to _him;_ she kept track of who Jenny Shepard really was through _him,_ and he was as much invested in her as he had been years ago, when there had been a ring on his finger.

* * *

_Paris, 1999_

Because in Paris she was the only women in his life, she was less demure-she was fierce, passionate, everything she couldn't fully _be_ when he'd been married, and so they argued more. _  
_

Decker stayed out of it-he had always been a pro at remaining neutral and ignoring the trials and tribulations of his colleagues' love lives, save that one moment when he had bee brutally honest with Jenny. They'd gotten so close in Los Angeles, she was like his sister now, and when her fighting with Gibbs woke him up one night, he groaned and covered his head with a pillow, sick of it, annoyed with it-they fought so damn much since Prague had happened. She'd gotten a concussion on an op this morning; Gibbs was supposed to be keeping her awake, not _antagonizing_ her.

Decker again resolved to stay out of it, but when the screaming got louder and he heard a loud bang, he got up, and chose to interfere, because it sounded like someone was going to get hurt.

That someone was going to be Gibbs, and Decker needed him to kill Zhukov.

Decker stormed down the hall tiredly, hellbent on busting it up-he could hear them yelling at each other more clearly as he got closer.

"-you _son of a bitch_-"

"-you hit the road, Jen, _you left-!"_

Jenny threw something.

"I can't-how can-I _love_ you, Jethro, you-bastard!" she shouted, and Decker hesitated at the door, suddenly reluctant to break it up, standing there when Gibbs laughed hollowly.

"Yeah, Jen, _that'll_ be the day," he scoffed meanly, blowing off her words.

Decker swore; he knew how Jenny could be when she was backed into a corner, scared, or vulnerable; she was like a feral cat, and she always brought down the predator attacking her. He opened the door roughly and she stumbled back, apparently having been just on the other side, on the verge of leaving. Her face flushed and she winced, embarrassed to find him there. She opened her mouth and then she flew forward, grabbing Decker tightly around he shoulders.

"I _didn't_ ruin his marriage," she sobbed uncertainly, shoving her head into his chest.

"Jesus," Decker grumbled under his breath, backing up and pulling her with him. She yanked away and whirled around.

"_I_ wasn't even the other woman! Not _really!"_ she yelled at Gibbs. She ran her hand through her hair. "I feel like _her,_ now I know what Diane felt like-!"

"Cool it," Decker barked, grabbing her arm again and dragging her backwards a little. "Calm down and shut up, I'm tryin' to sleep," sometimes it was the only way to knock sense into Shepard when she was riled up.

She turned toward him with red eyes, and Gibbs stormed forward, shooting Decker a violent look that clearly told him to stay out of it. He took Jenny's arm gently and pulled her back, putting his hand on her neck.

"I'm sorry, Jen," he said gruffly.

Decker stared, and she seemed totally calmed by it; she touched his hands.

"You don't _have_ to make people hurt like you do, Jethro!" she burst out, and Decker threw his hands up and left-he slammed the door loudly and stormed back to his bedrooms.

He'd tried two years ago to get her to see that, and she'd jumped right back into his arms in Europe. It was useless to make her see, and he was thinking maybe he should have asked for Callan or Hanna on this op instead.

* * *

_Paris, 1999_

Gibbs watched her sleep, his eyes narrowed, tracing the contours of her face. It had been a bad fight, even by their standards and _Christ_ were they good at fighting. It almost felt good, fighting with her, she dragged more out of him emotionally than any woman had been able to since he'd lost his family, and now, he watched her, and he was confused-what was she so upset about, what had she _meant?_

He'd said awful things, mean things-but she had come back with some pretty perceptive, deep stuff herself, almost as if she knew what was in his past.

He shouldn't have reproached her for leaving him; he shouldn't have told her he had a perfectly good marriage before she showed up. It wasn't true and they both knew he didn't mean it, but he hadn't expected her to take his words so seriously-he hadn't expected her to tell him she _loved_ him.

He reached over and touched her shoulder, shaking her awake, caring for the concussion. She rolled over groggily and blinked at him to show she was fine, she wasn't losing consciousness or life in the light sleep, and she snuggled into him, forgiving him, because his apology had been so sincere and his touch was so gentle.

He wanted to make it up to her, see her smile again, bring the light back into their relationship.

Maybe-find _some_ way-to tell her-

* * *

_Paris, 1999_

He bought her a coat—expensive, leather, soft as butter—in October; he rolled his eyes and teased her for not bringing one to France; she retorted that she'd spent too much time in California to remember there were cold places in the world.

She tried it on seductively, with nothing under it, and for two weeks, there was light again—it was a lull in the mission, and they were savoring that; they savored it in bed, in each other, in stolen candlelit moments, until Decker was handed an order from McAlister, and he handed them each a file with a name, a location, and a coded order.

Jenny's read: _Svetlana Chernetskaya; Paris: Eliminate Target._

* * *

_Paris, 1999_

She couldn't do it.

She bested the Russian woman in hand-to-hand combat, forced her to the floor, on her knees, and held a Sig Saur to her blond head—and she couldn't do it, because before this moment, Jenny Shepard had never _heard_ of Svetlana Chernetskaya.

She was a woman McAlister had uncovered recently; had attempted to turn to them, and added to the hit list when he failed. She was the lover of _The Russian_ Gibbs had in his file; she was the handler of the man Decker had in his.

She begged for her life; unarmed, and helpless, she cried—and she _begged_ for her _life—and_ Jenny gave it to her. She couldn't look into this woman's eyes and kill her, not without a list of crimes, not without personal grudge to drive her.

She looked down at Svetlana Chernetskaya, and all she saw was a woman desperately stumbling through a story of why she did this—she had nothing, she'd been an orphan, rescued by the cruel man she was attached to, unable to help loving him-and she was pregnant, and Jenny couldn't...she couldn't _murder_ a pregnant woman.

Jenny's hand shook; the other woman shoved a spear into her soft spot, and she remembered—acutely—another of the reasons she'd had to leave Jethro. He made her soft. He interfered. She had revenge to exact, a job to do, justice to serve, and Jethro made her _soft._

She slammed the butt of her gun into Svetlana's skull and left her unconscious—left her to get away alive and come back with a vengeance, a vendetta, against a green-eyed American woman in a black wig.

* * *

_Paris, 1999_

Gibbs didn't blink; didn't hesitate.

He walked up behind Anatoly Zhukov, and he shot him—double tapped his chest, holstered his weapon, and left the scene immaculate.

* * *

_Paris, 1999_

"Jen."

She tore the wig off, leaned forward heavily at the vanity in their hotel room.

She shook her head.

"Jenny," he said.

She looked over at him, and he crouched next to her.

"You okay?"

She nodded. Her right eye twitched. The tell alerted him, concerned him. He put his hand on her thigh where the scar from the bullet wound was. He squeezed comfortingly and she swallowed hard, parting her lips—Decker barged in.

"Are we clear?" he asked tensely. "We out clean?

"Yes," Jenny answered coldly, and Gibbs wasn't looking at her—he didn't see her right eye twitch again.

She seemed to forget that Decker was in the room; he let out a whoop of excitement and collapsed in an armchair, but she leaned down and kissed Gibbs, ignoring Deck—he was enough of a friend that it didn't matter-and relief and peace washed through her when Jethro reached up to twist his hand into her long, _red_ hair—free from the black disguise.

* * *

_Paris, 1999_

There was a void stretch of time after they executed the end of the operation; they had a waiting period to determine if they were really clear—and they were, in that time, technically unattached from NCIS to deter from international incident.

They were allowed to relax, let loose—enough that Gibbs was out at four in the morning one week dragging a deliriously drunk Decker out of a whorehouse, marching him home to Jenny—who tried to be stern, and yet couldn't stop laughing when he tripped half-heartedly up the stairs and fell asleep on the landing.

She spent hours sitting on a bridge over the Seine, wrapped in the gorgeous coat he'd bought her, warm, Jethro standing next to her, laughing about the days back in DC, looking at it through rose coloured glasses while the scabs that covered the old pain tore and ripped away and bled under the surface.

In the snow one afternoon on that bridge, she caught him looking at her, and pursed her lips—on the brink of telling him what he meant to her, what he'd always meant to her, with sincerity this time, instead of screaming it at him accidentally, when he was angry, when she was desperate to make him understand-and then she realized he wasn't _looking_ at her, he was looking through her; he was longing for someone else.

She realized with a sinking feeling that Diane had been right—Diane had _always_ been right; she wasn't Shannon, and as long as she remained _Jenny,_ she would never come close to having all of Jethro.

She pressed her lips together and turned away, squinting her eyes in the winter sun.

* * *

_Paris, 1999_

He leaned over her one morning, lazy in the early hours, and pulled her hair off of her neck; letting his lips linger at her throat. He said her name, waking her up, sliding his hand down her spine.

"Move in with me, Jen," he muttered, his lips trailing over her bare shoulders.

She opened her eyes, shifting towards him, emotions running wild. Her eyes stung and she fluttered her lashes. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to go back to DC with him, be with him.

He was, she realized, the only man she was ever going to _really_ love.

He said, _move in with me, Jen_. He didn't say, _I want you, Jen. I need you, Jen. I love you, Jen._

She turned into his arms and kissed him, answering only in silence, not really answering at all.

* * *

_Paris, 1999_

She didn't say goodbye in Europe; she was too much of a coward, too weak, to face the goodbye they had two years ago at the foot of her steps. She couldn't take the look in his eyes, his stoic demand that she stay. She remembered how he'd touched her and kissed her, his eyes blue and desperate, growling at her to stay, asking her not to leave him, and she didn't think she'd resist this time, and he still wasn't capable of loving her and she still had to avenge her father.

She remembered asking him what he'd do if she was just gone one morning-and how he'd viciously told her he'd rather her just _leave._

She wrote him a letter; left it in the pocket of the coat he'd given her. The flight she took away from him this time was a flight she took alone, and she closed her eyes and turned into the window and cried until the plane touched down in St. Petersburg, and there she dried her eyes, and threw herself into her career, and she didn't cry again for a very long time.

* * *

_Paris, 1999_

The letter did make him angry—it worked beautifully; he hated her after that. He drank, trying to find the answers to his misery at the bottom of vodka bottles—good bourbon couldn't be found in this accursed country.

He couldn't make Jenny stay and he hated her for it and he hated that the only time he faced the reality of the problem—his problem—was when it slapped him in the face, like it had when Diane left, and this time—when Jenny left again.

* * *

_Washington, DC 2000_

He was back in DC for the millennium, alone, numb, blindly angry enough to jump headfirst into another marriage with a sweet, funny woman—Stephanie. She was uncomplicated and spacey; demure and passive, nothing like Jenny, exactly what he needed to take his mind off it—and he ended up having to drag her to Moscow, right after they got married, because damned if NCIS didn't ship him right back to Europe.

* * *

_Moscow, 2000_

The cold was biting and the ground covered in snow when he ran into her on the steps in the Red Square in Moscow.

She was bundled tightly against the cold, red hair pulled around her face and tucked into a thick, soft wool scarf—had she just come out of the Kremlin?—and she looked up right as he stopped, stunned—and she stopped too.

They stared at each other, frozen in time, frozen in the cold. The world, it seemed, stopped moving.

Startled, Stephanie paused, yanked back abruptly by Gibbs' frozen stance, and she cuddled close to him for warmth, peering at the other woman with interest. Gibbs said nothing, and Stephanie looked at him uncertainly; the woman was looking at him, staring into his eyes defiantly, and then Jenny looked at Stephanie, and Stephanie didn't miss the scathing look her left ring finger received.

The cool green eyes snapped back to Gibbs.

"Вы еще не научились," she said huskily, her eyes glinting.

He said something harsh in Russian, rough, angry words:

"Ты смотришь холодно," he lashed at. "Оставьте ваше пальто в Париже?"

The redhead bit her lip; she looked away, and then she looked back, one last time. She nodded politely at Stephanie, and ducked her head, storming off up the stairs, and Gibbs wrenched forward, looking straight ahead as if nothing had happened.

"Who was she?" Stephanie asked.

She thought he wasn't going to answer; she shook his arm insistently. She didn't speak Russian; she was dying to know what had been said.

"Jethro."

"Worked with her, last year," he said.

He tried to ignore the pain that seeing her had awakened.

Stephanie turned, looking over her shoulder, straining to see the woman—but she was gone, and Gibbs' fourth wife looked up at him uncertainly, sure he wasn't telling her the whole truth.

* * *

_Cairo, 2001_

If it weren't for Ziva David, Jenny Shepard would be dead, and what had already happened was devastating enough.

She moved, and pain wracked her limbs—she gave a strangled, shocked whimper, and the noise woke Ziva up—Ziva, who was unexpectedly sleeping next to her in a plastic hospital chair.

"Do not move much, Shepard," she said mildly. "Your internal injuries are very severe."

"I feel it," Jenny said hoarsely, and grimaced.

"The doctors removed both bullets from your ribcage," Ziva went on professionally. "And you are lucky—" the girl touched Jenny's neck, where a thick bandage was taped to her fair skin. "The last bullet did not nick your jugular; it only grazed your skin."

Jenny nodded.

"Yeah," she rasped. "Lucky."

She should be grateful. She was, after all, alive.

She'd had horrible dreams, feverish dreams, dreams of Prague, bullets in her thigh, and Jethro shaking her, anchoring her to life in the back of a car.

Ziva touched her forehead again, and it was comforting. She smiled at her faintly, keeping her eyes open, afraid if she closed them she would be assaulted with memories of the boiler room they'd kept her in, of the men who'd been there with her, with their pliers and their cigarettes and their steel-toed boots—

She gasped, and Ziva shushed her, murmuring in melodic Hebrew.

"May I ask you something, Jenny?" she inquired politely, after a moment of silence.

Jenny just nodded.

"You were very sick when I got there—understandably, it took so much to refuse to tell them anything—"

-and Jenny _hadn't;_ she hadn't blown any cover or betrayed an ally.

"You were asking for Jethro," Ziva said in her calm alto voice. "It is a Hebrew name—but I do not know of one of our contacts by it? This Jethro, who is he?"

Jenny swallowed. She looked away and shrugged her shoulders, welcoming the pain that shot through her this time because it was much easier to bear than the emotional pain brought on by his name.

The memory of the last time she'd seen him, when he'd been so harsh and unforgiving in Moscow, still burned her.

"He's a man," she answered quietly, "from—a lifetime ago."

* * *

_Washington, DC 2001_

Gibbs stood toe-to-toe with this smug Baltimore cop, sizing him up.

"Rule five," he said gruffly, imparting his wisdom. "You don't waste good."

He pointed DiNozzo to the NCIS human resources room—he wanted DiNozzo, and he hadn't felt confident about an Agent in a long—a very long time now. This was something good; a trainee, a probie to focus on at work.

A probie who was going to give him a headache and piss him off rather than break up one of his marriages and catapult him into a second one that—right now—was ending in another divorce.

DiNozzo grinned his shit eating, lady-killer grin, and Gibbs glared at him balefully, turning and storming down the hall.

It was about time he had a team again.

* * *

_Washington, DC 2003_

MTAC buzzed with activity, on the satellite screen and in the audience. Caitlin Todd was dead, presumably at the hand of Ari Haswari—Ziva David's half brother. It was this that brought her back to the states, back to DC.

She sat in the front of the room, two rows in front of him, and she was calm—she was secure.

It had been six years.

Six years, and when she turned around and looked at him, and he stared at her from his seat, his blue eyes meeting hers and reflecting intensely every emotionally charged ounce of the history between them—she could still breathe, and she was still secure.

Six years, and she was where she had always wanted to be—she had confidence, she had achievement; she wasn't just a young woman drowning and fighting and proving herself anymore.

She had loved him with consuming fire and then heartbreaking despair and finally with calm acceptance, and it was that mature _acceptance_ that she would _always_ love him, that she simply had to stop fighting it—and that he may _never_ be able to conquer his demons for her—that enabled her to move forward, and smile.

* * *

_Washington, DC 2003_

He knew it was her when she stood; he saw the hair, and it all flashed before his eyes—the physical touch of it, the emotional strain of it, _everything—he_ saw it, Maryland, Paris, Serbia, Postano, Prague, Moscow—_Jenny_.

He stared at her, and his head was clear; the epiphany crashed into him heavily, nearly floored him:

He had fallen for this woman in the same way he had fallen for Shannon—unexpectedly, completely, recklessly—and he couldn't have known then that she would be the second woman to haunt him for the rest of his life—not because he had lost her to death too young, but because he had so completely failed her.

She held his eye for a moment; she cocked an eyebrow, and smirked—and maybe...did that mean it wasn't too late?

She said:

"Hello, Jethro."

* * *

_Finis._

_The Russian Dialogue:  
Jenny: You haven't learned.  
Jethro: You look cold. Leave your coat in Paris?_

_-Alexandra  
xoxo  
story #100_

_*Note that much of the dialogue is recognizable because it is NOT MINE. If you think it sounds familiar, then I borrowed it from an episode, and all credit goes to the NCIS writers, not myself. _


End file.
